A year in Russia

By Maurice Baring

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Title: A year in Russia

Author: Maurice Baring

Release date: December 9, 2023 [eBook #72360]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Methuen & Co, 1907

Credits: Richard Tonsing, Peter Becker, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A YEAR IN RUSSIA ***

A YEAR IN RUSSIA

BY
MAURICE BARING

AUTHOR OF “WITH THE RUSSIANS IN MANCHURIA,” ETC.

METHUEN & CO.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON

_First Published in 1907_

DEDICATED

LADY CONSTANCE LYTTON

“Vieni a veder Montecchi e Cappelletti,
Monaldi e Filippeschi, uom senza cura;
Color già tristi e costor con sospetti.
Vien, crudel, vieni e vedi la pressura
De’ tuoi gentili, e cura lor magagne:
E vedrai Santafior come si cura.
Vieni a veder la tua Roma, che piagne,
Vedova, sola, e dì e notte chiama:
Cesare mio, perchè non m’ accompagne?”

DANTE (_Purg. VI._)

“Une nation ne se sépare jamais de son passé sans de cruels
déchirements.”

“Why, Sir, absolute princes seldom do any harm. But they who are
governed by them are governed by chance. There is no security for good
government.”

DR. JOHNSON

PREFACE

The basis of most of these chapters is composed of letters contributed
during the current year to the _Morning Post_, by whose kind permission
they are here republished. They reflect the fleeting ideas, the passing
moods of the moment; but as the various moments of which they reflect
some kind of image form part of what must constitute an eventful chapter
of Russian history, I have thought that it would be worth while to
republish them, so as to furnish some kind of record of what people were
thinking and saying while the interesting things—which history will
relate—were happening, and so as to give a few sidelights showing the
attitude of “the man in the street,” during the hours of crisis. Such
sidelights tend to show how little even the greatest crises in the lives
of States affect the daily life of the average man. The people who cry
out that the state of things is intolerable and not to be borne are, for
the most part, well-to-do people who work up their indignation towards
the end of a good dinner. The people who to the far-off looker-on seem
to be undergoing intolerable oppression are themselves lookers-on, and
they scarcely look, hardly realise and seldom say anything.

I have endeavoured in these chapters to present impartially the widely
divergent points of view of various people; at the same time I have made
no attempt to disguise the whereabouts of my sympathies, being mindful
of the sage, who, as Renan translates him, says: “Ne sois pas trop
juste, et n’affecte pas trop de sagesse de peur d’être un niais.”

These sidelights being the reflections of fugitive phases, I have made
no attempt to introduce an element of consistency into them, nor have I
in the light of subsequent events tried to modify the effect of the
hopes which proved to be illusory or of the fears which were
groundless—hopes and fears which I myself shared with those by whom I
heard them expressed.

To those who take a serious interest in the Russian evolution I would
suggest two valuable books, “The Crisis in Russia,” by Professor
Milioukov (London: Fisher Unwin, 1905), and “La Crise Russe,” by Maxime
Kovalevsky (Paris: Giard & E. Brière, 16, Rue Souflot, 1906).

“Modern Customs and Ancient Laws of Russia,” by the same author (Nutt,
1891), will be useful to the student of the past history of Russia. Nor
can one too often recommend “L’Empire des Tsars,” by M. Leroy-Beaulieu.
Sir Donald Mackenzie Wallace’s work on Russia needs no recommendation.
All these books, which deal with the past of Russia, will help the
student to understand what is happening at present; for without some
knowledge of the past history of Russia, what is now taking place cannot
but be incomprehensible.

ST. PETERSBURG

CONTENTS

PAGE
PREFACE ix
INTRODUCTION xiii
CHAPTER
I. ST. PETERSBURG TO GODZIADAN 1
II. JEN-TZEN-TUNG 11
III. THE STRIKE AND THE MANIFESTO OF OCTOBER (30TH) 17TH 21
IV. MOSCOW AFTER THE MANIFESTO 31
V. ST. PETERSBURG BEFORE THE SECOND STRIKE 39
VI. MOSCOW—THE DECEMBER RISING 43
VII. MOSCOW—AFTER THE RISING 63
VIII. THE “INTELLIGENZIA” 75
IX. THE BEGINNING OF THE REACTION 84
X. CURRENT IDEAS IN ST. PETERSBURG 97
XI. DOSTOIEVSKI’S ANNIVERSARY 121
XII. THE POLITICAL PARTIES 128
XIII. IN THE COUNTRY 137
XIV. THE ELECTIONS 152
XV. EASTER AT MOSCOW—THE FOREIGN LOAN 162
XVI. THE AGRARIAN QUESTION—ON THE EVE OF THE DUMA 178
XVII. THE OPENING OF THE DUMA 191
XVIII. FURTHER IMPRESSIONS OF THE DUMA 202
XIX. THE DEADLOCK 212
XX. CURRENT IDEAS ON THE DUMA 225
XXI. THE BEGINNING OF DISORDER 233
XXII. PRINCE URUSSOFF’S SPEECH 250
XXIII. NAZARENKO, AND OTHER PEASANT MEMBERS 258
XXIV. THE DISSOLUTION OF THE DUMA 281
XXV. IN THE COUNTRY AFTER THE DISSOLUTION 288
INDEX 309

INTRODUCTION

This book is nothing else but a collection of notes, a bundle of
impressions gathered during a year’s stay in Russia. It lays no claim to
be either exhaustive or even of any practical use to the serious student
of the Russian Evolution. It is written for the ignorant, and with the
object of helping them to decide whether they wish to take an interest
in what is now happening in Russia, or not. I cannot take them into the
house and show them all over it from floor to ceiling with the knowledge
and authority of a master-builder; all I can do is to open a small
window and ask them to look through it and observe certain things,
pointing out how far these things are typical of the whole; and my hope
is that the glimpses I have given them will enable them to decide
whether they wish to go and knock at the front door and investigate for
themselves.

This book consists solely of a record of things I have seen and heard
myself in Russia during an interesting year of the history of that
country. My experience of English opinion on Russian things has
convinced me that in order to make such a record as intelligible as
possible, a great deal of introduction and explanation would be
necessary. The reason of this is that the ignorance in England about
Russia is extraordinary; and most of the current literature—I mean the
books published on Russian affairs—instead of dispelling that ignorance,
succeed rather in increasing it. Russia and Russian affairs are so
little known in England that the country has proved a happy hunting
ground for sensational writers of fiction and still more sensational
purveyors of facts. Leaving the writers of fiction out of the question,
the chief bar which seems to separate writers about Russia from a just
estimate and a valuable appreciation of that country is the language. It
is possible to convey information about Russia if you are ignorant of
the Russian language; and such information may prove to be not only
useful, but of surprising interest to people who are totally ignorant of
the country. But unless you are acquainted with the Russian language it
is impossible to acquire an intimate knowledge of the Russian people,
and it is difficult to understand many things which happen in Russia.

I had, therefore, the intention, before proceeding to a record of any
things I had seen myself, to collect and convey the impressions I had
received of the Russian character and of Russian life in various
classes, correcting and illustrating my impressions by those of others
who have worked in the same field, and by evidence drawn from Russian
literature. I meant to try and illustrate books by examples taken from
life, and throw light on events and people by examples taken from
literature; but I found when I began to do this that the writing of such
an introduction was equivalent to the writing of two large books, one on
the Russian people and one on Russian literature, a task which I still
hope to accomplish some day, but for which I do not at present feel
sufficiently equipped. Moreover, even were I sufficiently equipped, the
writing of two such books cannot be accomplished in a hurry in a country
which is in a state of political effervescence. I have therefore sadly
resigned myself to work backwards, and give to the public my record of
raw facts first and the explanation at a later date.

Nevertheless in giving this collection of scraps to the public I still
have an aim and a purpose. As I have said, Englishmen are amazingly
ignorant of Russia; not only because they deliberately prefer the works
of sensation-mongers to those of really well-informed writers like Sir
D. M. Wallace or M. Leroy-Beaulieu, but also because, when they honestly
seek for truth in the newspapers which are by way of being serious, they
are almost invariably misled. On the other hand Englishmen who live in
Russia, even if only for a short period—such as officers from the Indian
Army who come out on leave to learn the language—find no difficulty in
forming a just appreciation of the country and its people. It has always
struck me that if any such person were to write a record of what he saw
and thought, that record would have a real value because it would
constitute an aspect of the truth and not an aspect of the lie. This is
therefore my aim, and it is the only merit I claim for this work. It
contains aspects of things, seen by some one whose object was to try and
understand the ordinary and not to invent the extraordinary. And
therefore, although my work has no sort of claim to be taken seriously,
either as history, or as a manual of useful information, it will have
the negative merit of being free from any attempt at sensationalism,
and, I hope, the positive merit of containing some aspects of the truth,
some unvarnished record of _la chose vue_.

If what I have written leads others to take an interest in Russia and to
go and see for themselves, and to treat exhaustively in a masterly
fashion the things at which I have hinted incompletely and haltingly, I
shall feel amply rewarded.

Somebody might object that even if we are totally ignorant of Russia in
England there is no great harm done, that Russia is a far-off country
with an impossibly difficult language; why should we bother about it? To
this I would reply that the British people have shown themselves to be
gravely concerned about the increasing competition with which the
Englishman has to contend in all branches of life, and at the alarming
improvement in the methods of his neighbours, which is met by no similar
improvement at home. British trade, British influence, are rapidly, it
is said, being outstripped. Remedies, such as protection, are suggested.
As to whether such a remedy would prove efficacious or not I have no
idea; but one practical reason of our stagnation in certain matters
cannot fail to strike the most indolent observer. Our neighbours are
well and practically educated. We are not. Is not this fact the cause of
a great many things? If we want to remedy an evil we must look for the
cause. I firmly believe that the unpractical education which is given to
so many of us is largely responsible for the comparative stagnation of
Englishmen in matters of trade and enterprise, compared with the
sedulous efforts of the citizens of other countries. I am not advocating
the introduction of a purely continental system of education, nor would
I like to see our system of athletics disappear; but it is obvious that
there is not and never will be any danger of either of these two things
happening. But I never mean to lose an opportunity of advocating a
radical reform in the old-fashioned strictly classical education given
and received at our public schools and rendered necessary by the
obstinacy of our universities, owing to which Greek and Latin are taught
(but no longer learned except by a slender minority), to the exclusion
of all other useful knowledge.

The mass of boys who now learn nothing because Greek and Latin mean
nothing to them, would gladly assimilate something which would be useful
to them in after life: for instance, some smattering of their own
history, some mastery of the English tongue, or the knowledge of a
modern language.

There is no country where the disadvantage at which an Englishman finds
himself compared to his continental rivals is made so plain as in
Russia. In Russia there is, and there will be even more in the future,
an immense field for foreign enterprise. The Germans have taken, are
taking, and will take the utmost advantage of this fact. The English are
content to send advertisements here, written in the English language,
and never dream of trying to learn Russian themselves.

A working knowledge of the Russian language is acquired here by the
average British officer, working for an examination, in the course of
six months. Therefore this difficulty, though serious, is not
insurmountable. This, then, is the practical reason which I advance for
the furthering of knowledge about Russia. I say that such knowledge is
useful and advantageous to Englishmen. I have another reason for wishing
such knowledge to be propagated, which is personal and moral, but not
sentimental. It is this. I confess that I entertain perhaps a foolish
desire for goodwill among nations. Of course I know very well that
rivalries and conflicts must exist. Sometimes such rivalries and
conflicts are the result of a fundamental antagonism and of the struggle
for existence. But sometimes they are merely the outcome of
misunderstanding and prejudice.

One of the wickedest things which shelters itself under the holy name of
patriotism is the spirit which stirs up such prejudice and incites one
country against another groundlessly by playing on ignorance and popular
passion. With regard to Russia this has been done with considerable
success. So far from considering such action to be patriotic, I consider
it to be criminal; and although it may not be of the slightest interest
to any one to hear this opinion expressed, to express it is a pleasure
which I cannot deny myself. Whatever faults this book may contain, I
mean to make up for the disappointments which it has caused me by
indulging to the full in the luxury of saying exactly what I think in
its pages. I cannot, unfortunately, hope to be among those masters who,
speaking with inspired authority and unerring skill, compel the crowd to
listen to their message, and at the sound of whose clarion-like
utterance the “forts of folly” fall to the ground like the walls of
Jericho. Mine is a humbler task, a more inglorious ambition. I hope to
be like an obscure mouse who nibbles in the darkness at the net which
holds the lion captive. The mouse in his lifelong effort succeeds
perhaps only in gnawing away a little; and I shall be content if I
succeed in nibbling through the most tenuous thread of this great net of
error, misunderstanding, and falsehood. There are other mice who will
come after me, and who knows? perhaps one day the lion will be set free.

Finally, if it be asked from what point of view I approach my study of
Russia, I would answer that I have no political views whatever in the
matter; I have tried to make it my business to discover, understand, and
explain the points of view of the people with whom I have met; with some
of these views I sympathise, with others I do not. I have already said
that I have not disguised my sympathies, but I have attempted to
understand even what repelled me; my attitude is that of a sympathetic
friend, for whether the Frenchman who said “L’intelligence est presque
toujours la sympathie” was right or wrong, I am convinced that the
converse is true, and that the spirit of carping is nearly related to
stupidity.

A YEAR IN RUSSIA

CHAPTER I
ST. PETERSBURG TO GODZIADAN

_August 8, 1905._

I left St. Petersburg this evening for Manchuria. The one absorbing
discussion in St. Petersburg is the question of the peace negotiations.
Will there be peace or not?

IN THE TRAIN ON THE WAY TO IRKUTSK,

_August 11th_.

I started for Irkutsk on the 9th from Moscow. The train is crowded with
people—officers going to the war, men of business going to Siberia,
women and children. It is exceedingly hot. The last time I travelled in
this Trans-Siberian express the winter had just given way to the
leafless and bare aspect of early spring. Now we travel through great
stretches of green plains, past huge fir-woods which are burnt and
browned by the heat. The topic of the peace negotiations continues to
prevail above all other topics. I am constantly asked my opinion. We
have just received the latest telegrams from Portsmouth. A man of
business asked me if I thought there would be peace. I said “Yes.”
“There won’t be,” he replied. The railway line is fringed all the way
with pink flowers, which, not being a botanist, I take to be ragged
robin. At night the full moon shines spectral and large over the dark
trees and marshes, and every now and then over stretches of shining
water. The officers discuss the war from morning till night. They abuse
their generals mercilessly. They say that it is impossible for Russians
to look foreigners in the face. In my compartment there is an army
doctor. He assisted at the battle of Mukden and is now returning for the
second time to the war. He tells me that he wrote a diary of his
experiences during the battle and that he is unable to re-read it now,
so poignantly painful is the record. He trusts there will not be peace.
He is sanguine as to the future. He loathes the liberal tendencies in
Russia and detests Maxim Gorki. Yet he is no Jingo.

A gentleman from Moscow, and his wife, on the contrary, inveigh bitterly
against the Government and the war. (I saw these same people again at
Moscow after the December rising. Their house was situated in a street
where the firing had been heavy and abundant. They had had enough of
revolution and blamed the revolutionaries as severely then as they now
blamed the Government.) We constantly pass trains full of troops going
to the war. The men all ask the same question: “When is peace going to
be?” They ask for newspapers and cigarettes. I gave some of them some
bottles of whisky, which they drank off then and there out of the
bottle. An amusing incident happened last evening. We had stopped at a
siding. Everybody had got out of the train. I was walking up and down
the platform with one of the passengers. We saw a soldier throwing big
stones at the window of the washing compartment.

“What are you doing that for?” we asked.

“I want to speak to his Honour,” the soldier said; “he is washing his
face in the washing-room.” And through the window of the compartment,
lit by electric light, we could see the silhouette of an officer washing
his face.

“Why don’t you go and knock at the door?” we asked.

“They are” (to speak of a person in the third person plural is
respectful in Russian, and is always done by inferiors of their
superiors)—“they are ‘having taken drink’ (_Oni Vipimshi_),” he replied,
and then he added, lest we should receive a false impression, “His
Honour is very good.”

As we passed train after train of troops I reflected on the rashness of
prophecy. How often I had heard it said in London, when the war broke
out, that the line would break down immediately. Even when I reached
Mukden I heard people say that the line could not possibly last through
the summer, and here it is supporting gaily train after train in the
second year of the war.

ON THE WAY TO CHITA, _August 20th_.

We arrived at Irkutsk on the morning of the 17th and took the train for
Baikal. At Irkutsk station there was a train of sick soldiers returning
from the war. They begged for newspapers. The tedium of their long
journey is, they say, intolerable. They say there has been a good deal
of typhus in Manchuria.

We crossed the lake in the steamer. Its summer aspect is far less
striking than the strange glory which it wears when it is frozen, and
the distant mountains seem like “a sunny pleasure dome with caves of
ice.” In summer the waters are blue, the nearer hills grey and the
distant mountains blue, but with nothing strange or unreal about them.
Yet when the sunset silvered the grey tints and spread a ragged golden
banner in the sky, the lake was extremely beautiful in another way. At
Baikal station there was the usual struggle for places in the train. How
well I remembered the desperate struggle I had gone through to get a
seat in a third-class carriage at this same place last year! This time
it was in the first-class carriage that the conflict took place. An
engineer got into the same carriage as I did. He occupied one of the
lower berths and I the other. Presently a lady arrived, bound for Chita,
and looking for a place. She came into our carriage and asked to be
allowed to have one of the lower berths. The engineer flatly refused and
said that he had occupied his seat and had a right to keep it. I told
her I would let her have mine with pleasure. She occupied it and went
out. I moved my things into the upper berth. “Why on earth did you give
up your seat?” the engineer asked. “You had a _right_ to keep it.” When
the lady came back she said to me: “Ah! you are evidently not a Russian;
no Russian would have given up his place.” The engineer turned out to be
quite a good-natured sort of person, but there is something about trains
which makes people who are by nature mild and good-natured turn into
savages, and instils into them a passionate determination to cleave to
their rights. The next morning another man arrived in our carriage, with
a large basket and a second-class ticket. This upset the engineer, who
complained to the “Controller” of the train, and the poor man was turned
out. The engineer snorted and said: “There’s an insolent fellow for
you.” The lady was the wife of an engineer who was employed at Chita;
and she told me much about life in Chita: how hard times were, owing to
the war, how scarce food was getting—

“Und wie so teuer der Kaffee,
Und wie so rar das Geld!”

The “Controller” of the train, an official in plain clothes, whose exact
duties I was not able to determine, except that he was able to turn the
second-class passenger out of our carriage, spent a day and a night with
us. He and the engineer talked without ceasing of the meetings of the
Zemstva all over the country; of the discontent of the public servants
and of the imminence of a strike. They told me there would be a big
railway strike, but I did not pay much attention to this, nor did I in
the least realise the importance of what they were discussing. In one of
the second-class carriages I made friends with two young officers who
were going out to the war as volunteers, and two ladies, one the wife of
an officer already out there, and the other a hospital nurse. With them
also was the son of the officer’s wife, a student from Odessa, who told
me many interesting things. He described to me in great detail the
mutiny of the Black Sea Fleet, and he prophesied, if not a revolution,
at least a great change in Russia in the immediate future. One of the
carriages of the train was barred, and in it sat a political prisoner, a
schoolmaster from Irkutsk. Some of my friends went to speak to him, but
they came back in melancholy and disappointment, since they said this
prisoner was hissing hatred and rage through the bars in an undignified
and painful manner.

Soon after we left Baikal a young man joined us who said he was employed
in a firm at Chita. He had brought with him some flowers from Irkutsk.
These he carried in a large basket full of wet sand. They were a kind of
pathetic stock but not “in fragrant blow”; poor, feeble, starved and
rather dirty flowers they were. But in Transbaikalia flowers were rare,
and he had paid 18 roubles, he said (£1 8s.), for this nosegay, and he
was bringing them to Chita as a gift to the girl to whom he was engaged
to be married. He looked after these flowers with the utmost care; the
basket was put in my berth and, as it was full of water, a constant
stream trickled down from it and made a small pond on the floor of the
carriage.

_August 20th. Later._

We are nearing Chita; the husband of the lady to whom I gave my place
has arrived to meet her and take her home. He is an engineer. They are
deeply engaged in discussing local politics. The husband talks of a
coming strike, and tells me that if I wish to see political meetings I
had better stay in Chita. There are meetings every evening; some of them
are dispersed by the police. I now realise the importance of flowers in
this country; it is “a land of sand and ruin and gold.” The young clerk
has produced two perforated bouquetholders (is there such a word?) and
has carefully placed the flowers in them, with a sigh of relief. They
have not quite faded, although they droop sadly. At Chita the lady and
her husband get out. The engineer also. I am now alone in my carriage.
Beyond Chita the country is mountainous and fledged with fir-trees.

_August 21st._

The hilly country has ceased and we have once more reached the flat
plains. This morning the guard brought a man into my carriage and asked
me if I minded his sitting there. I said I did not mind. I offered him
some tea. The man made no answer, and looked at me with a vacant stare.
Then the guard laid him down at full length, and said, “This man is the
assistant station-master at Manchuria station. He is drunk, but you need
not be alarmed; he will be quite quiet.” He was quiet; at Manchuria
station he woke up from his stupor automatically, as though from
frequent habit.

_August 22nd._

We arrived at Manchuria station last night. The chaos that always reigns
there is terrific. I had the utmost difficulty in obtaining permission
to continue my journey. The officials said I needed an extra paper,
besides those I had with me, from the Chief of the Staff in Kharbin. The
initial difficulty was to get one’s ticket, as the crowd was dense and
long. What quantities of people seem to be drawn to Manchuria, like
filings to a magnet! An officer got me my ticket, and just when I had
utterly despaired of being able to travel further, the gendarme brought
me my permission to proceed. Then came the struggle for a place in a
third-class carriage. This was successfully got through. I obtained an
upper berth across the window. The compartment is crammed with people.

_August 23rd._

We are travelling through the hills of northern Manchuria. News has
arrived of the summoning of a new Duma. Now people say there will not be
peace, and the war will become a national war because it will have the
consent of the people. Others contest this; there are hot discussions. I
have moved into a second-class carriage in which there is a photographer
and a captain. I had my fortune told with cards by a lady in the train.
She said I should soon meet a lot of friends and experience a change of
fortune for the better.

_August 28th._

We arrived at Kharbin the day before yesterday. The town seems to have
got much bigger than when I left it last year. The climate has not
improved, nor have the prices at the hotel diminished. I have already
met some old friends of last year at the bank and at the staff. There is
a new restaurant opposite the bank, where a band plays the overture to
“William Tell” without ceasing. Kharbin is empty. It appears that
Linievitch does not allow officers to come here except on pressing
errands. I dislike Kharbin more than any place I have ever seen in the
world. The one topic is, of course, the peace negotiations. The matter
is hotly discussed; some are in favour of peace, others vehemently
against it. The news is contradictory. I have asked for leave to go to
the front. I shall have to wait some days before I receive it.

_August 31st._

I am laid up in bed, and Mr. Ostrovski of the Russo-Chinese bank has
just been to see me. He has come from the staff, where they told him
that news had been received from St. Petersburg that there would not be
peace. Orders had come to dispatch everything available to the front
with all possible speed and to get ready for an offensive movement.

_September 1st._

Peace has been officially announced. Among the officers I have seen,
opinions vary, but the men are delighted. They are tearing the telegrams
from each other.

_September 7th._

I arrived at Gonchuling yesterday. Gonchuling is now what Mukden used to
be before the battle of Mukden was fought. It consists of dozens and
dozens of small grey brick houses, with slate roofs, on one side of the
line, and on the other side of the line is a small Chinese town. The
Military Attachés are here in their car. I am living with the Press
Censors. People talk about peace as if it was not yet a fact. An
officer, whose wife I met in the train coming out, has been sent to
fortify positions. Kouropatkin’s army is said to have received orders to
advance. People express doubts as to whether the peace will be ratified,
and there is talk of a revolution in Japan.

I have the intention of joining the 2nd Transbaikal Cossack battery,
with which I lived last year. I have telegraphed to them to send horses
to meet me at Godziadan, the Head Quarters of the Staff.

_September 10th._

I have arrived at Godziadan. In the station is the train of the
Commander-in-Chief. There is also a correspondents’ car, where I have
been put up and hospitably entertained by Boris Nikolaievitch
Demchinsky, correspondent of a Russian newspaper. The news has come of
the first _pour-parlers_ which are to take place between the Russian and
Japanese Commanders-in-Chief.

CHAPTER II
JEN-TZEN-TUNG

_September 13th._

I arrived at the quarters of the battery this morning. It is quartered
in a village near the large Chinese town of Jen-tzen-tung on the
Mongolian frontier. I started from Godziadan at eight o’clock in the
morning on the 11th, when I found two Cossacks waiting for me, with a
third pony for me to ride, saddled with my own English saddle, which I
had left behind me last year. As we started one of the Cossacks said:
“You must be careful with that pony, he throws himself.” I wondered what
this meant; whether the pony ran away, or bit, or kicked, or stumbled,
or bucked, or fell, my experience of Chinese ponies being that they do
all these things. I was not long in finding out; it meant that the pony
took a sort of dive forward every now and then, tearing the skin off
one’s fingers in the effort to hold it up.

After we had ridden for about two hours, one of the Cossacks asked the
other if he knew the way. The other answered that he did not. The first
one told him he was a fool. “But,” I interrupted, “as you have just come
from Jen-tzen-tung, surely you know the way back.”

“Oh!” they answered, “we came by quite a different way along the lines.
But, _nichevo_, it doesn’t matter. We shall get there somehow.” We
stopped for luncheon at an encampment of the Red Cross. I was
entertained by the doctors and the hospital nurses. They expressed the
most bitter and violently revolutionary sentiments. After luncheon we
went on, asking the way of the Chinese in each village, our destination
for the evening being the large town of Oushitai. At every village we
asked, the Chinese answered by telling us how many lis (a li is 1⅓ of a
mile) Oushitai was distant, and the accuracy with which they determined
the distance was, as far as I could judge, amazing. We arrived at
Oushitai at moonrise. We went into a yard where there was tea, and straw
to lie on, and provisions, but the Cossacks refused to stay there
because there were “soldiers” there. The Cossacks, being Cossacks and
not “soldiers,” often consider it beneath their dignity to mix with
soldiers. So we had to find another yard, where we drank tea and slept
until dawn the next morning, when we started once more. We halted at
midday in a small Chinese village for our midday meal. It was a small,
rather tumble-down village, with a large clump of trees near it. A
Chinaman came out of a house, and seeing the red correspondent’s badge
on my arm, asked me if I was a doctor. To save the bother of explanation
I said I was a doctor. Then he conveyed the information in
pidgin-Russian that his son was ill, and requested me to cure him. I
went into the house and he showed me a brown and naked infant with a fat
stomach. I made him put out his tongue. It was white. I asked what he
had been eating lately. The Chinaman said raw Indian corn. I prescribed
cessation of diet and complete repose. The Chinaman appeared to me to be
much satisfied, and asked me if I would like to hear a concert. I said
very much. Then he bade me sit down on the khan—the natural divan of
every Chinese house—and to look (“_smotrì, smotrì_” he said). Presently
another Chinaman came into the room and, taking from the wall a large
and twisted clarion (like the wreathed horn old Triton blew), he blew on
it one deafening blast and hung it up on the wall again. There was a
short pause, I waited in expectation, and the Chinaman turned to me and
said: “The concert is now over.”

I then went to have luncheon with the Cossacks under the trees. The
luncheon consisted of hard rusks (hard as bricks), made of black bread,
swimming in an earthen bowl of boiling water on the top of which tea was
sprinkled. When we had finished luncheon, and just as we were about to
resume our journey, the Chinaman in whose house I had been entertained
rushed up to me and said: “In your country, when you go to a concert, do
you not pay for it?” The concert was paid for and then we started once
more to ride along the mountainous roads, a flat green country, with few
trees, and great pools of water caused by recent rain, through which we
had to wade and sometimes to swim. Towards the afternoon the aspect of
the country changed; we reached grassy and flowery steppes. It was the
beginning of the Mongolian country. We met Mongols sitting sideways on
their ponies, and dressed in coats of many colours. I have never felt
quite so tired in my life as while that interminable afternoon wore on.
The distance from Godziadan to Jen-tzen-tung is eighty miles, and when
the sun set, and the Cossacks announced that after arriving at
Jen-tzen-tung we should have to ride yet two miles further to find the
battery, I inwardly resolved that no force on earth should make me ride
another inch that night. We arrived at Jen-tzen-tung at eight o’clock in
the evening. There I found my old friend Kizlitzki, of the battery, who,
as usual, was living by himself in Chinese quarters of immaculate
cleanliness. His servant being the former cook of the battery who used
every day to make “Boeuf Stroganoff,” Kizlitzki gave me an excellent
dinner and a most comfortable bed. The next morning I rode to the
village, two miles distant, where the battery was quartered, and here I
found all my old friends: Glinka, the doctor, Hliebnikoff, and others.

The house is a regular Chinese house, or series of one-storeyed houses
forming a quadrangle, in which horses, donkeys, and hens disport
themselves. We occupy one side of the house. Opposite us the owner
lives. In the evening one hears music from the other side. I went to see
what it was; a Chinaman lying on his back plays on a one-stringed lute,
“und singt ein Lied dabei, das hat eine wundersame gewaltige Melodei.”
Something like this:—

[Illustration: [Music]]

The first question everybody asked me was whether peace had been
declared or not. There has been some fighting here at the outposts since
peace was declared.

_September 15th._

This village is exceedingly picturesque. It lies in a clump of
willow-trees and hard by there is a large wood which stretches down to a
broad and brown river. Next to our quarters there is a small house where
an old Chinaman is preparing three young students for their examination
in Pekin. One of these Chinamen came this morning and complained that
their house had been ruined by the Cossacks. We went to inspect the
disaster. It turned out that one of the Cossacks had put his finger
through one of the paper windows of the house, making thereby a small
hole in it. The old teacher is quite charming. He recited poetry to us.
When the Chinese recite poetry they half sing it. I had lately read a
translation of a Chinese poem by Li-Tai-Po, which in the translation
runs thus:—

“You ask me what my soul does away in the sky;
I inwardly smile but I cannot make answer;
Like the peach blossom carried off by the stream,
I soar away to a world unknown to you.”

By means of a small piece of wood, a flower, and some water I made the
Chinaman understand what poem I was alluding to, and he recited it for
us. The Chinese asked me to tell them their fortunes by their hands. I
said to one of them, at random, that I saw great riches in his hand,
thinking it would please him. The Chinaman said nothing, but later, when
this Chinaman, who was a visitor, had gone, the others said to me: “You
spoke true words. That man is a ‘Koupeza’ (pidgin-Russian for merchant)
and he is enormously rich.” These Chinamen take an acute interest in the
result of the peace negotiations, and wish to be informed as to all
sorts of details of which we are ignorant. The impression among the
officers here is that it is a very good thing that peace has been
concluded. “We ought to thank Heaven that our men have not been beaten
again,” one of them said, and he added: “It is silly to say that the
higher authorities are the only guilty ones; we are all equally guilty.”

_September 16th._

We spend the time riding, reading, bathing, sleeping, and playing
patiences.

Jen-tzen-tung is a large and most picturesque town. A constant stream of
Mongols flows in and out of it. They wear the most picturesque clothes,
silks and velvets of deep orange and luminous sea-green, glowing like
jewels. We ride into the town to buy provisions, fish mostly. The wines
sold at the shops are all sham and horribly nasty. At the corner of one
of the streets there is a professional wizard, dressed in black silk
embroidered with silver moons, and wearing the conical cap that wizards
always do wear. You ask a question, pay a small sum and shake coins out
of a cup three times, and according as the coins make an odd or even
figure, the wizard writes down a sign on a piece of paper, and then he
tells you the answer to your question. The Chinese consult him before
striking a bargain or setting out on a journey. I asked him whether I
should get back all right? He answered that I could go home either by
the East or the West, and that the West would be better, though I should
meet with obstacles.

He refused to prophesy for more than a hundred days ahead.

In the evening, after dinner, we discussed politics and the Duma (that
is to say the Duma as originally planned by the decree of August 6th).
The doctor said that unless there were to be a constitution in Russia,
he would emigrate abroad, as he did not choose that his children should
be brought up in a country which was politically inferior to Turkey. He
is hopeful about the Duma; he says Witte will be a national hero; and
that a constitution is a foregone conclusion. Somebody said the peasants
were hopeless. He hotly contested this, and said there was far more
political sense among the peasants than among the rest of the
population. He has had great experience of the peasants.

_September 19th._

I had a long talk with Kizlitzki this afternoon. He is like a round peg
in a square hole in this army. Strict discipline and impeccable order
seem to him the first essentials of military life. The others don’t
understand this, although they are conscientious; but they like doing
things in their own way, which is a happy-go-lucky way, and they think
Kizlitzki is rather mad. Kizlitzki told me that at the battle of
Ta-shichiae, where he was in command of the battery, when he had made
all the necessary arrangements, placed his guns, &c., he received orders
to go and speak to a general; before he went, he warned his subordinates
to leave everything as it was. When he came back he found that the
battery, owing to the fancy of one of the subordinates, had been moved
two miles from where he had placed it. So he had to fetch it back and
arrange everything over again. The result was that it did not open fire
until two in the afternoon, a fact which I had noticed at the time,
although I was not with the battery then. He said he had never made such
an effort of self-control as not to lose his temper when he saw what had
been done. In the French or German, and I trust also in our army,
Kizlitzki’s methods would be taken as a matter of course. Here they are
considered to be an unnecessary pose. On the other hand he is not in the
least a formalist, a lover of red-tape, or a pedant; he merely considers
elementary discipline to be necessary.

I had tea with a Chinese Mandarin. I do not know which was the more
exquisite, his tea or his manners. In the evening we discussed writers
of books. Hliebnikoff said he knew who was the greatest writer in the
world, and when some one else asked who, he answered Dostoievski of
course. The doctor vehemently disagreed with this. Hliebnikoff went out
of the room in disgust. It is astonishing what a quantity of English
novels these people have read in translations: Mrs. Humphry Ward, Rider
Haggard, Stevenson, Kipling, Conan Doyle, Mark Twain, Jerome K. Jerome.
The doctor admires Jerome enormously. I think there is a human element
in him which especially appeals to Russians.

_September 21st._

A fine, hot, and glorious September day. The evening was one of those
things that linger in one’s mind like music. The sky was a very faint
mauve, something between mauve and pink, like a hydrangea, or as Dante
says:—

“Men che di rose e più che di viole
Colore aprendo,”

and, hanging over the delicate willow-trees, silvery in the half-light
and faintly rustling, a large and misty moon—a moon made of ghostly
fire. The days pass in pleasant monotony; visitors come from other
divisions; but we go to bed about nine in the evening and get up very
early. It is a delicious life. We often visit the Chinese professor in
his peripatetic school. One of the students asked me whether in my
country “you write and a big captain comes to look-see, and if all was
not well, beats you.” I said that practically this was the procedure of
our competitive examinations.

_September 27th._

Autumn has come and it is too cold now for the men to be encamped here
out of doors, so we have moved into quarters in the town.

_October 1st._

I left for Gunchuling, _en route_ for Kharbin, with Hliebnikoff and
another, and bade goodbye to the friends who had so hospitably
entertained me. (Two of them I was never to see again, for they died
shortly after I left, one of typhoid and one of dysentery.) We arrived
at Oushitai at five in the evening. The country is said to be infested
by Hung-Hutzes, and some men were wounded by them yesterday in the
environs of this place. At Jen-tzen-tung I met a merchant, whom I had
known at Liaoyang, who had been caught by the Hung-Hutzes, but—

“As no one present seemed to know
His use or name, they let him go.”

Jen-tzen-tung was on the extreme right flank of the Russian army. The
army therefore extended eighty miles from the extreme right flank to the
centre, and again another eighty miles from the centre to the extreme
left flank. Oushitai was connected with Gunchuling by a kind of
tram-railway drawn by horses.

_October 6th._

In this tram we travelled to Gunchuling, and thence I proceeded to
Kharbin by train.

CHAPTER III
THE STRIKE AND THE MANIFESTO OF OCTOBER (30TH) 17TH

MOSCOW, _November 3rd_.

My return journey from Kharbin to Moscow was entirely uneventful until
we arrived at Samara. At Irkutsk I had got a place in the Trans-Siberian
express, which was crowded with all sorts and conditions of men:
officers, merchants, three Germans, three Americans who had returned
from working a mine in Siberia, a Polish student, and some ladies.

The first inkling that I received of the fact that a revolution was
going on in Russia came to me in the following manner. We had crossed
the Urals and had only been travelling thirteen days. We had arrived at
Samara, when the attendant, who looked after the first-class carriage,
came into my compartment and heaved a deep sigh. I asked him what was
the matter. “We shan’t get further than Toula,” he said. “Why?” I asked.
“Because of the unpleasantnesses” (_niepriyat nosti_). I asked, “What
unpleasantnesses?” “There is a mutiny,” he said, “on the line.” We
passed the big station of Sisran and arrived at the small town of
Kouznetsk. There we were informed that the train could not go any
further because of the strike. Nobody realised the extent of the strike,
and we expected to go on in a few hours. By the evening the passengers
began to show some signs of restlessness. Most of them telegraphed to
various authorities. A petition was telegraphed to the Minister of Ways
and Communications, saying that an express train full of passengers,
overtired by a long and fatiguing journey, was waiting at Kouznetsk, and
asking him to be so good as to arrange for them to proceed further.
There was no answer to this telegram. The next day a sense of
resignation seemed to come over the company. Although every evening,
towards dinner-time, one heard innumerable complaints such as “only in
Russia could such a _bezobrazie_ (literally an ugliness, _i.e._, a
disgraceful thing) happen,” and one passenger suggested that Prince
Kilkoff’s portrait, which was hung in the dining-car, should be turned
face to the wall. The Polish student, who had accompanied the Americans
and made music for them, playing by ear any tune they whistled to him,
and consequently a great many tunes from the Gaiety repertoire, played
the piano with exaggerated facility and endless fioriture and runs. I
asked an American mechanic who was with the mining managers whether he
liked the music. He said he would like it if the “damned hell” were
knocked out of it, which was exactly my feeling. But on the second day
after our arrival my American friends left by road for Samara, to
proceed thence by water to St. Petersburg. The passengers spent the time
in exploring the town, which was somnolent and melancholy in the
extreme. Half of it was a typical Russian village built on a hill, a
mass of brown huts; the other half, on the plain, was like a village in
any country. The idle guards and railway officials sat on the steps of
the station-room whistling. Two more trains arrived: a sanitary train
and an ordinary slow passenger train.

The passengers from these trains wandered about the platform, mixing
with the idlers from the town population. A crowd of peasants and
travellers, engineers, and Red Cross attendants, soldiers, and merchants
sauntered up and down in loose shirts and big boots, munching sunflower
seeds and spitting out the husks till the platform was thick with
refuse. A doctor who was in our train, and who was half a German, with
an official training and an orthodox official mind, talked to the
railway servants like a father. It was very wrong to strike, he said.
They should have put down their grievances on paper and had them
forwarded by the proper channels. The officials said that that would be
waste of ink and caligraphy. “I wonder they don’t kill him,” said my
travelling companion, and I agreed with him. Each passenger was given a
rouble a day to buy food. The third-class passengers were given checks,
in return for which they could receive meals. However, they deprecated
the idea, and said that they wanted the amount in beer. They received
it. Then they looted the refreshment room, broke the windows, and took
away the food. This put an end to the check system. The feeling among
the first-class passengers deepened. Something ought to be done, was the
general verdict; but nobody quite knew what. They felt that the train
ought to be placed in a position of safety. The situation on the evening
of the second day began to resemble that described in Maupassant’s
masterpiece, “Boule de Suif.” Nothing, however, could be done except to
explore the town of Kouznetsk. It was warm autumn weather. The roads
were soft and muddy, and there was a smell of rotting leaves in the air.
It was damp and grey, with gleams of pitiful weak sunshine. In the
middle of the town was a large market-place where a brisk trade in geese
was carried on. One man whom I watched failed to sell his geese during
the day, and while driving them home at night talked to them as if they
had been dogs, saying, “Cheer up, we shall soon be home.” A party of
convicts who belonged to the passenger train were working hard by the
station, and implored the passing tribute of a sigh and a cigarette.
Both were freely given. Convicts in Russia are always alluded to as
“unfortunates.” I met them near the station and they at once said, “Give
the unfortunates something.” In the evening, in one of the third-class
carriages, a party of Little Russians, assistants in the Red Cross, sang
songs in parts—melancholy, beautiful songs, with a strange trotting
rhythm and no end and no beginning; and opposite their carriage on the
platform a small crowd of moujiks gathered together and listened, saying
that the men sang with cunning (_lovko paiout_).

On the morning of the fourth day after we had arrived the impatience of
the passengers increased to fever pitch. A colonel who was with us, and
who knew how to use the telegraph, communicated with Piensa, the next
big station. For although the telegraph clerks were on strike they
remained in the office conversing with their friends on the wire all
over Russia. The strikers were most affable. They said they had not the
slightest objection to the express proceeding on its journey, that they
would neither boycott nor beat anybody who took us, and that if we could
find a friend to drive the engine, well and good. We did. We found a
friend, an amateur engine-driver, and an amateur engine, and on the 28th
of October we started for Piensa. We broke down on the way. The
engine-driver was supported by public contributions. The moment the
engine stopped work all the passengers volunteered advice as to how it
should be mended, one man producing a piece of string for the purpose.
However, another stray engine was found, and we arrived at last at
Piensa. There I saw mentioned in the telegrams the words “rights of
speech and assembly,” and I knew that the strike was a revolution. At
Piensa the rage of the military—who had had their return journey from
the Far East delayed—against the strikers was indescribable. They were
lurching about the station in a state of inebriate frenzy, using
language about strikes and strikers which is not fit to repeat. One of
them asked me if I was a striker. We stopped at Piensa for the night. We
started again the next morning for Moscow, but the train came to a dead
stop at two o’clock the next morning at Riansk, and when I woke up the
first-class attendant came, with many deep sighs, and said that we
should go no further until the unpleasantnesses were at an end. But an
hour later news came that we could go to Riazan in another train, which
we did. Riazan station, when we arrived, was guarded by soldiers. A
train was ready to start for Moscow, but the scuffle for places in it
was terrific. I found a place in a third-class carriage. Opposite me was
an old man with a grey beard. He attracted my attention by the
extraordinary courtesy with which he prevented a woman, with many
bundles, from being turned out of the train by another moujik. I asked
him where he came from. “Eighty versts from the other side of Irkutsk,”
he said. “I was sent there, and I am returning home now after thirteen
years at the Government’s expense. I was a convict.” “What were you sent
there for?” I asked. “Murder!” he answered very gently. The other
passengers asked him to tell his story. “It’s a long story,” he said.
“Tell!” shouted the other passengers. His story briefly was this: He had
got drunk, set fire to a barn, and when the owner interfered he had
killed him. He had served two years’ hard labour and eleven years’
banishment. He was a gentle, humble creature, with a very mild
expression, like an apostle in disguise. He had no money, and lived on
what other passengers gave him. I gave him a cigarette. He smoked a
quarter of it and said he would keep the rest for the journey, as he had
still got five hundred versts to travel. We arrived at Moscow at eleven
o’clock in the evening and found the town in darkness, save for the
glimmer of oil lamps. The next morning we woke up to find that Russia
had been given a Magna Charta; that the railway and other officials had
obtained the same concessions from the Government as the Barons had won
from King John seven hundred years ago.

MOSCOW, _October 30th_ (Old Style, _October 17th_).

The first thing which brought home to me that Russia had been granted
the promise of a Constitution was this. I went to the big Russian baths.
Somebody came in and asked for some soap, upon which the barber’s
assistant, aged about ten, said with the air of a Hampden, “Give the
‘citizen’ some soap” (_Daite grajdaninon mwilo_). Coming out of the
baths I found the streets decorated with flags, and everybody in a state
of frantic and effervescing enthusiasm. I went to one of the big
restaurants. There old men were embracing each other and drinking the
first glass of vodka to free Russia. After luncheon I went out into the
Theatre square. There is a fountain in it, which forms an excellent
public platform. An orator mounted it and addressed the crowd. He began
to read the Emperor’s Manifesto. Then he said: “We are all too much used
to the rascality of the Autocracy to believe this; away with the
Autocracy!” The crowd, infuriated—they were evidently expecting an
enthusiastic eulogy—cried: “Away with you!” But instead of attacking the
speaker who had aroused their indignation they ran away from him! It was
a curious sight. The spectators on the pavement were seized with panic
and ran too. The orator, seeing his speech had missed fire, changed its
tone and said: “You have misunderstood me.” But what he had said was
perfectly clear. This speaker was an ordinary Hyde Park orator, and not
to be confused with the University professors who afterwards spoke from
the same platform. Later in the afternoon a procession of students
arrived opposite my hotel with red flags, and collected outside the
Governor-General’s house. He appeared on the balcony and made a speech,
in which he said that now there were no police he hoped that they would
be able to keep order themselves. He asked them also to replace the red
flag which was hanging on the lamp-post opposite the palace by the
national flag. One little student climbed like a monkey up the lamp-post
and hung a national flag there, but did not remove the red flag. Then
the Governor asked them to sing the National Anthem, which they did; and
as they went away they sang the Marseillaise.

“On peut très bien jouer ces deux airs à la fois
Et cela fait un air qui fait sauter les rois.”

At one moment a Cossack arrived, but an official came out of the house
and told him he was not needed, upon which he went away amidst the
jeers, cheers, hoots, and whistling of the crowd. The day passed off
quietly on the whole, the only untoward incidents being the death of a
woman and the wounding of a student and a workman while trying to rescue
a student from the prisoners’ van. A veterinary surgeon called Bauman
was also shot on this day.

To-day for the first time I heard the phrase “Black Gang” used. I was
standing on the doorstep of the Hôtel de France, when a woman rushed
frantically up and said the “Black Gang” were coming. A student,
belonging to a very good family, who was standing there, also explained
that the “Black Gang” consisted of roughs who supported the autocratic
cause. His hand, which was bandaged, had been severely hurt while he was
in the act of taking off his hat that day, by a Cossack who had beat it
with a whip, thinking he was about to make a disturbance. He came up to
my room and from the hotel window we had a good view of the crowd which
proceeded to—

“attaquer la Marseillaise en _la_
Sur les cuivres, pendant que la flûte soupire
En _mi bèmol_: Veillons au salut de l’Empire.”

MOSCOW, _November 7th_.

I went to see Maxim Gorki’s new play at the Artistic Theatre of Moscow,
“The Children of the Sun.” It was the second night that it had been
performed. M. Stanislavoshi, one of the chief actors of the troupe and
the stage manager, gave me his place. The theatre was crammed. There is
a scene in the play, where a doctor, living in a Russian village, and
devoting his life to the welfare of the peasants, is suspected of having
caused an outbreak of cholera. The infuriated peasants pursue the doctor
and bash some one on the head. On the first night this scene had reduced
a part of the audience to hysterics. It was too “actual.” People said we
see enough of our friends killed in the streets without going to the
play for such a sight. On the second night it was said that the
offensive scene had been suppressed. I did not quite understand what had
been eliminated. As I saw the scene it was played as follows. A roar is
heard as of an angry crowd. Then the doctor runs into a house and hides.
The master of the house protests; a peasant flies at his throat and half
strangles him until he is beaten on the head by another peasant who
belongs to the house. The play is full of interesting moments, and was
played with the finished perfection which makes this theatre famous and
unique. But M. Gorki has not M. Tchekoff’s talent of representing on the
stage the uneventful passage of time, the succession of the seemingly
insignificant incidents of people’s everyday lives, chosen with such
skill, depicted with such an instinct for mood and atmosphere that the
result is enthrallingly interesting. M. Gorki’s plays have the faults
and qualities of his stories. They are unequal, but contain moments of
poignant interest and vividness. I do not think, however, that his gifts
are pre-eminently suited for the stage.

CHAPTER IV
MOSCOW AFTER THE MANIFESTO

_Wednesday, October 1st._

At dinner at the Métropole Restaurant a strange scene occurred. At the
end of dinner the band played the Marseillaise, and after it the
National Anthem. Everybody stood up except one mild-looking man with
spectacles, who went on calmly eating his dinner, upon which a man who
was sitting at the other end of the room, and was rather drunk, rushed
up to him and began to pull him about and drag him to his feet. He made
a display of passive resistance, which proved effectual, and when he had
finished his dinner he went away.

_Thursday, November 2nd._

The outward aspect of the town during these days is strange. Moscow
seems like a city which has been undergoing a siege. Many of the shops
have got great wooden shutters. Some of the doors have a large red cross
on them. The distress, I am told, during the strike was terrible. There
was no light, no gas, no water, all the shops were shut; provisions and
wood were scarce. This afternoon I went to see Bauman’s funeral
procession, which I witnessed from many parts of the town. It was one of
the most impressive sights I have ever seen. A hundred thousand men took
part in it. The whole of the “Intelligenzia” (the professional and
middle class) was in the streets or at the windows. The windows and
balconies were crowded with people. The order was perfect. There was not
a hitch nor a scuffle. The men walking in the procession consisted of
students, doctors, workmen, people in various kinds of uniform. There
were ambulances, with doctors dressed in white in them, in case there
should be casualties. The men bore great red banners and the coffin was
covered with a scarlet pall. As they marched they sang in a low chant
the “Marseillaise,” “Viechni Pamiat,” and the “Funeral March”[1] of the
fighters for freedom. This last tune is the most impressive. From a
musician’s point of view it is a shockingly bad tune; but then, as Du
Maurier said, one should never listen to musicians on the subject of
music any more than one should listen to wine merchants on the subject
of wine. But it is the tune which to my mind is exactly fitting for the
Russian revolution, with its dogged melancholy and invincible passion,
as fitting as the “Marseillaise” (which, by the way, the Russian sings
in parts and slowly) is totally unfitting. The “Funeral March” has
nothing defiant in it; but it is one of those tunes which, when sung by
a multitude, make one’s flesh creep; it is commonplace if you will; and
it expresses—as it were by accident—the commonplaceness of all that is
determined and unflinching, mingled with an accent of weary pathos. As
it grew dark torches were brought out, lighting up the red banners and
the scarlet coffin of the unknown veterinary surgeon, who in a second,
by a strange freak of chance, had become a hero, or rather a symbol, an
emblem and a banner, and who was being carried to his last resting place
with a simplicity which eclipsed the pomp of all royal funerals, and to
the sound of a low song of tired but indefatigable sadness stronger and
more formidable than the pæans which celebrate the triumphs and the
pageants of kings.

Footnote 1:

By a strange irony of fate, this tune, which the revolutionaries have
made their own, was originally an official tune, composed probably by
some obscure military bandmaster, and played at the funerals of
officers and high officials.

The impression left on my mind by this funeral is deep. As I saw these
hundred thousand men march past so quietly, so simply, in their
bourgeois clothes, singing in careless, almost conversational fashion, I
seemed nevertheless to hear the “tramping of innumerable armies,” and to
feel the breath of the

“Courage never to submit or yield,
And what is else not to be overcome.”

It is impossible for the Government or for any one else to accuse these
people of displaying a provoking attitude, of badgering or insulting the
soldiers or the authorities, or of not being able to keep order among
themselves.

_November 3rd._

Last night, after Bauman’s funeral, which passed off without an
incident, at eleven o’clock a number of students and doctors were shot
in front of the university, as they were on their way home, by Cossacks,
who were stationed in the Riding School, opposite the university. The
Cossacks fired without orders. They were incensed, as many of the troops
were, by the display of red flags, and they disliked processions.

_November 6th._

The last three days have been days of curious disorder and anarchy. I
will try and note briefly what has been taking place.

The day after Bauman’s funeral (November 3rd) was the anniversary of the
Emperor’s accession, and all the “hooligans” of the city, who are now
called the “Black Gang,” used the opportunity to make counter
demonstrations under the ægis of the National flag. The students did
nothing, they were in no way aggressive; but the hooligans when they
came across a student beat him and in many cases killed him. The police
did nothing; they seemed to have disappeared. These hooligans paraded
the town in small groups, sometimes uniting, blocking the traffic,
demanding money from well-dressed people, killing students, and making
themselves generally objectionable. When the police were appealed to
they shrugged their shoulders and said: “Liberty.” The hooligans
demanded the release of the man who had killed Bauman. “They have set
free so many of their men,” they said, referring to the revolutionaries,
“we want our man set free.” Practically the town was in a state of
anarchy; anybody could kill any one else with impunity. In one of the
biggest streets a hooligan came up to a man and asked him for money; he
gave him ten kopecks. “Is that all?” said the hooligan, “Take that,” and
he killed him with a Finnish knife. I was myself stopped by a band on
the Twerskaia and asked politely to contribute to their fund, the fund
of the “Black Gang,” which I did with considerable alacrity. However,
students, or those whom they considered to be students in disguise, were
the people they mostly attacked. The citizens of the town in general
soon began to think that this state of things was intolerable, and
vigorous representations were made to the town Duma that some steps
should be taken to put an end to it. The hooligans broke the windows of
the Hôtel Métropole and those of several shops. There was a general
impression among them that liberty meant doing as much damage as they
pleased. This state of things lasted three days, and now it has been
stopped—utterly and completely stopped. A notice is published forbidding
all demonstrations in the streets with flags. The police have
reappeared, and everything has resumed its normal course. These bands of
hooligans were small and exceedingly easy to deal with. The disorders
were completely unnecessary. But they have done some good in one way;
they have brought home to everybody the necessity for order and the
maintenance of order, and the conviction that if the police are removed
the result will be anarchy. However, considering the state of
lawlessness that existed, it is remarkable how little damage was done.

The night before last, as I was walking back to the hotel after dinner,
I met two omnibuses full of wounded students being driven to the
hospital. One student was torn to pieces by a hooligan crowd yesterday
afternoon; and a friend of mine from the windows of the Hôtel National
saw another trampled to death.

The general tenour of opinion among the Liberals is that the Government
must prove their good intentions by deeds and not by words, and that
soothing Manifestoes are of no use now. There are three points on which
they insist. First, they demand that the partial amnesty should be made
complete; that there should be an amnesty for all political offenders
without exception. Secondly, they say that they have no guarantee for
the new reforms, because the Ministers are taken from the Bureaucracy.
They demand new Ministers taken from the Zemstva. Thirdly, they demand
the resignation of General Trepoff. With regard to the first point it
would be a wise step on the part of the Government to satisfy the
Liberals. The concessions will probably be made gradually, and I suppose
their maxim is not to give too much at once or the demands will
increase. It is a pity, if the Government have decided to give in on
this point, that they did not do so at once. Every concession seems, as
it is, to have been extorted by force. That is the general impression of
the Liberals: “We have been given nothing; everything we have obtained
we have extorted by force.” With regard to the resignation of General
Trepoff, if I were a Russian and guarantees were given that the police
were no longer going to interfere with individuals, and that the secret
police force was to be abolished—and I believe this is being done—I
should make a demonstration for the retention of General Trepoff. If
there are to be police at all to keep order, somebody must manage them.
The Russian police are a hopelessly incompetent body, and General
Trepoff is a thoroughly competent man. He may have used too heavy a hand
sometimes, and I can understand the people being indignant that he
should rule Russia like a dictator. On the other hand he knows how to
keep order; he knows how to manage the police, and if the liberty of
individuals is respected—and, so far, since the publication of the
Manifesto it has been—I cannot see why any one should desire his
retirement. However, the discussion of this point is futile. General
Trepoff has become a symbol, like General Galliffet in France after the
Commune. To the ordinary Russian Liberal he represents the Bureaucracy
and all the evils of the old régime, and nothing can change that
impression. His position is probably untenable, and he will be forced to
resign, though, as far as liberty is concerned, at present the people do
exactly what they like in the way of political meetings, the newspapers
write what they please, and the prisons at Moscow and St. Petersburg
have been partially emptied of their political prisoners. The Russians
have, in fact, got the two boons which Matthew Arnold said were so
dearly cherished by the English middle class—liberty to make fools of
themselves, and publicity to show the world how they are doing it. The
extreme revolutionary party wish to do away with the Emperor altogether
and to have a Republic. If this is done some people say there will be a
civil war in every town and village in the Russian Empire. As it is,
half the people do not understand what a Constitution means. A soldier,
for instance, asked whether it meant that the Emperor had resigned; and
some of the educated class understand it still less.

Altogether the Liberals seem to me to be in too great a hurry;
nevertheless things are apparently calming down. The question is—Will
Count Witte between now and then succeed in thoroughly gaining the
confidence of the Liberals and of the representatives of the Zemtsva? If
he succeeds all will be well. The extreme Conservative Party,
represented by the _Moskovski Viedomosti_, is really of no practical
account. Its point of view was admirably represented by the hall porter
of one of the old and conservative families at Moscow, who on the day of
the publication of the Manifesto said: “The Emperor has deserted us.”

CHAPTER V
ST. PETERSBURG BEFORE THE SECOND STRIKE

ST. PETERSBURG, _November 9th_.

I arrived here this morning from Moscow. The chief piece of news which
is being discussed is the dismissal of Trepoff. Of Trepoff one always
hears contradictory accounts: some people saying he is an inveterate
reactionary, a Jew-baiter, &c.; others that he is a man of great common
sense, liberal in policy as far as this is compatible with common sense,
and never afraid of speaking his mind. I heard from people who ought to
know that he was strongly in favour of the granting of the Manifesto of
October 17th. What aroused the general hatred against him was his “order
for the day” telling the soldiers not to spare cartridges, should there
be disorders. I met him once here before the war broke out. I thought he
seemed a sensible, strong-willed person. When he was Chief of the Police
at Moscow he had the reputation of being sensible, of keeping order
well, of being rather heavy-handed, and of committing foolish _gaffes_
from time to time. I am certain he is neither the monster he is made out
by the Liberal press here and abroad, nor yet the Cromwellian genius
other people would have us believe him to be. I expect that his strength
lies in the fact that he does not mind saying what he thinks. In St.
Petersburg this quality is so rare that people who possess it appear to
be geniuses.

_November 12th._

I went this afternoon to hear a performance of Beethoven’s “Fidelio.” I
don’t think the young lions in the gallery realised that this opera was
the complete expression of the “Liberation movement” in Germany!

The number of hooligans who now infest the streets is great. A story is
circulating of a hooligan who stopped a man and demanded his watch. He
gave it. The hooligan then asked for his coat. He gave it also, the
hooligan giving him his own coat in exchange. When the man who had been
robbed got home he found his own watch and 170 roubles in the pocket of
the hooligan’s coat.

_November 14th._

The official declaration of the postponement of the Polish
constitutional liberties is causing a good deal of talk and excitement.

One point with regard to Poland which people sometimes overlook is that
there are Poles in Germany; Poles in the North of Germany besides those
in German Poland; and moreover a great many Poles. German Poland also is
an important factor in itself. The situation therefore is analogous to
what would happen if Ireland were a country shared between France and
England, and if England had been at war with Germany or any Power, just
as Russia has been at war with Japan, and if while that war lasted
France had promised to cause no trouble on our Irish frontier. Whether
the German Emperor made any definite promise not to interfere on the
Polish frontier during the Japanese War it is impossible to say; what at
all events is certain is that an independent Poland would not be viewed
favourably in Germany, because it would tend to produce an independent
German Poland and a discontented and rebellious Polish population in
North Germany. One has only to read Bismarck’s Memoirs to see that one
of the keynotes of his policy was a friendship with Russia based on
common interests and action with regard to Poland. It is unlikely that
the German Emperor has departed from this traditional policy. However
that may be, at this moment the situation in Poland, the prolonged
strike which has continued steadily long after the strikes have ceased
in other parts of Russia, calls for some immediate action. Two courses
were open to the Government: either to grant autonomy at once or to
enforce order by martial law. There is a rumour current here that the
German Emperor, who would, as has already been explained, be strongly
opposed to anything like Polish autonomy, had come to an agreement with
the Russian Emperor on this point. The Russian newspapers to-day say
that German troops are being moved to the frontier. In any case we are
face to face with the fact that martial law has been proclaimed in
Poland; and any sentimental sympathy with the Poles which one might feel
is counteracted by the fact that had they only waited until the Duma or
the Constituent Assembly met in Russia they would probably have got
autonomy without any trouble. Whether the enforcement of martial law in
Poland is a wise measure or not is another question; but it is one of
two necessary courses.

The fact is that the Poles, like the Liberals here, are in a great
hurry. They wish everything to be done at once, and changes which have
taken some centuries to elaborate in other and calmer countries to be
brought about here in a few days. The Liberals are now crying loudly
that nothing will satisfy them but a Constituent Assembly based on
universal suffrage. They are unwilling to wait a few months until order
can be restored, and until the Duma can meet and vote on the adoption or
the non-adoption of such an assembly. They wish it to come straight into
existence, like Pallas from the brain of Zeus. All that is written in
the Liberal papers here must not be taken as an absolutely impartial and
dispassionate record of facts. A well-informed, sensible, and Liberal
Russian told me yesterday that some of these papers—and among them not
the most Radical, some of which, he said, were managed by sincere and
able men—were merely for opposition for the sake of opposition, and that
whatever Count Witte said or did they would say it was wrong; some of
them act the part of deliberate inciters and wish merely to add fuel to
the general excitement. I am not of course alluding to Liberal
newspapers which have an old-established and solid reputation such as
the _Russkie Viedomosti_ of Moscow. There is a newspaper here which was
especially violent in insisting on the fact that not only General
Trepoff but also all the military should be removed from the town; these
violent articles did not prevent them from sending privately to General
Trepoff to ask for a squadron of Cossacks to protect their office,
begging at the same time that this request might be kept secret.

The “Intellectuals” of Russia have many qualities, but everything they
say must not be taken as being irrefutable; they are human, like the
rest of us. They are less practical than some of us, even if we do not
agree with a well-known French manager of a _café_ here, who said: “Les
Intelligents!” (with a snort of disgust). “Ce sont les intelligents les
plus bêtes que j’aie jamais vus.” What one is hearing constantly said by
sensible people is that before any political theory or system is carried
into effect order must be restored; that the reforms which have been
granted cannot be carried out in detail in a day; that there is one man
capable of carrying these reforms out, and that he is Count Witte; that
to oppose Count Witte for the sake of opposition is merely criminal,
because if Count Witte throws up the sponge the game will be lost and
the result will be universal anarchy, the only remedy for which will be
universal and drastic repression. The trouble is that Count Witte is a
man of business, and no one else in Russia is. It seems to me that the
Liberals by their action are in danger of creating a party of reaction.
For the so-called “reactionary party” did not up to the present moment
exist. That is to say, there was practically nobody of any importance
who wished to revert to the state of things before the granting of the
Constitution. On the other hand, there are a great many people who think
that the maintenance of order is all important.

The opponents of the Government, however, say that it is making for
disorder, and point to the massacres of the Jews in the provinces. The
Kronstadt mutiny is said not to have been political; nevertheless if the
sailors had not got drunk, nothing could have prevented their blowing
Peterhof to bits. A universal strike is threatened immediately.

_November 17th._

Last night, while I was at the Opéra Bouffe, where the “Country Girl”
was being given, the electric light went out. The performance continued
all the same; the actors holding bedroom candles in their hands, while
the auditorium remained in the dimmest of twilights. This is owing to
the strike.

_November 21st._

I started for London.

CHAPTER VI
MOSCOW—THE DECEMBER RISING

MOSCOW, _December 12th_.

When one is in England it is very difficult to form an idea of what is
taking place in Russia, and this is not owing to the absence but to the
superabundance of news concerning Russian events. One cannot see the
wood for the trees. In Russia there is also a superabundance of news and
of rumours; but merely by walking about in the streets one is brought
face to face with certain facts, enabling one to check the news to some
extent. I have been in Russia a week, at St. Petersburg, and I arrived
here yesterday. In St. Petersburg the impression that a stranger
receives on arriving is that everything is going on exactly the same as
usual. The streets are crowded, the shops are all open, and there is
nothing to show that the country is in a state of revolution.

The postal strike was over in St. Petersburg when I arrived, and it is
now over here, although, owing to the dislocation and the arrears, the
postal service is at this moment almost imperceptible.

With regard to political matters, the main impression one receives is
that the revolutionary party is admirably organised, and although there
are dissensions among it—as, for instance, between the Social
Revolutionaries and the Social Democrats—they are willing if not ready
to coalesce at any given moment against the Government, whereas the body
of people who do not side with the revolutionaries are split up into
various groups, differing on some of the most important points of
policy. Perhaps the most important of these groups is the Constitutional
Democratic Party, which is in favour of universal suffrage and a
National Assembly.

Especially remarkable are the various shapes taken by the criticism
directed against Count Witte by the various parties. Roughly speaking,
this criticism may be divided into three heads:

1. The revolutionaries (including the Constitutional Democrats) say that
Count Witte is a Bureaucrat; that nothing good can come of him, and that
he and his _régime_ must go.

2. The Moderates—I call them Moderates for want of a better word—say
that Count Witte has not proved himself to be equal to his task; that
since the publication of the Manifesto he has not formulated a single
law save an ineffectual one with regard to the Press.

3. The reactionary Nationalists say that Count Witte is a traitor, that
he has been bought by the Jews and is playing for a Republic. There is a
sentence of Napoleon’s which perhaps may occur to Count Witte under the
present circumstances: “Un homme d’état est-il fait pour être sensible?
N’est-ce pas un personnage complètement excentrique, toujours seul d’un
côté, avec le monde de l’autre?” Count Witte is at this moment
completely “excentric.” If he succeeds—and by succeeding I mean
remaining in power until the Duma meets—his triumph will be great. To
give some idea of the atmosphere which we vaguely call public opinion, I
will quote some of the _obiter dicta_ I have heard since I have been
here. That Count Witte is a cunning old fox, worse than Plehve. That
Count Witte is not what he was; that he is merely incapable of executing
what he undertook. That Count Witte is the most far-seeing man in
Russia; that he centralised Russia in order to lead to a revolution, and
thus make radical changes easier; that he placed the railways in the
hands of the State and created the spirit monopoly in order to have no
private interests to deal with when the crash should come. That Count
Witte is a Radical of the type of Robespierre, and will only declare
himself to be on the side of popular representation when the upper
classes are entirely destroyed.

That the Government is too weak, and that it all comes from having been
too weak from the first and from not having hanged the Kronstadt
mutineers. That the Government was too reactionary from the first, and
that it destroyed the confidence of the people by establishing martial
law in Poland directly after the Manifesto. That the _régime_ of Plehve
was better than the present state of anarchy. That the present _régime_
is more reactionary than the system of Plehve. That with a Government as
revolutionary as the existing one nothing good can be expected; that the
Constitution should be withdrawn, the Emperor should be deposed and
another appointed, and that Count Witte should be hanged. That the
Government has not been explicit enough; that a programme including two
Legislative Chambers—an Upper and Lower Chamber—should be published and
sworn to by the Emperor, and that the utmost severity should be
employed, after that, in case of necessity. That no Government at all is
necessary in Russia; only a _Bund_, a Council of Empire, which should
meet once a year and manage the railways; that the Army should be
disbanded and the country entirely decentralised. That a Dictator should
be appointed at once, and 10,000 “intellectuals” arrested.

That the revolutionaries merely want to destroy any form of government
as an act of revenge; that they are as the Irish, “agin the Government”;
that this act of revenge is not surprising, considering they are
smarting under the monstrous wrong which has been done them for years,
_i.e._, misgovernment carried to the extreme. That nothing can possibly
restore peace to Russia except universal suffrage, and that Russia being
by nature more democratic than other European countries need not feel
herself bound to follow their example, but must proceed straight to
universal suffrage. That the Emperor should go to Moscow. That if the
Emperor goes to Moscow it would excite the peasants to kill the middle
and upper classes. That this would be a bad thing. That this would be a
good thing. That if the Emperor goes to Moscow he will be killed. That
it is nonsense to think the Emperor would be killed at Moscow; that his
position cannot be worse than it is, but might be improved by such a
step. That the Kremlin would be a safer residence than the Tsarskoe
Selo. That the Emperor must take an oath to the Constitution, and give
guarantees that it will not be withdrawn. That the Emperor should put
himself at the head of the peasants and the Army and snap his fingers at
the Socialists and the landlords and give the peasants the land.

All these opinions I have heard from Russians since I have been here. In
St. Petersburg considerable anxiety was felt as to what would happen in
Moscow on the occasion of the Emperor’s birthday (to-day), since the
reactionary party—the “Alliance of Russian People”—had requested and
been allowed to organise a demonstration opposite the Kremlin. These
fears, however, proved groundless. I was present at the demonstration.
The holy banners were carried in procession from the Kremlin to the
public place outside the Kremlin walls, where a service was held. The
procession then returned into the Kremlin at twelve o’clock. There was a
small crowd looking on, and one man (a butcher) made a speech, saying
that the Emperor had been terrorised into giving a Constitution, but
that he would be requested to take it back again. The crowd cheered, and
one policeman repeated five times that the speaker was a fine fellow.
The crowd then marched in procession to the Governor-General’s house,
and Admiral Dubassoff spoke to the crowd. This crowd was a ridiculously
small one; it dispersed at noon. The population of Moscow was
conspicuous by its absence.

A great deal is talked at present about the doings of the hooligans in
St. Petersburg and Moscow. In St. Petersburg the number of beggars in
the street is remarkable; here the doings of the hooligans are said to
take place mostly at night. One hears on all sides that the state of
things is impossible and that the streets are unsafe, yet they are
crowded with people all day long. There appears also to be some danger
from the reckless way in which the population toy with “Browning”
pistols in self-defence, but except for this and the hooligans there is
no kind of danger for foreigners here.

The state of the Army here has caused the Government a good deal of
alarm. The mutiny in the Rostov Regiment came to an abrupt end
yesterday, and to-day news has arrived of a manifesto granting the
soldiers extra pay, extra meat, and soap. The discontent among the
soldiers and sailors has been up to now in every case economical and not
political, therefore it is thought that if the economical demands are
satisfied the discontent will disappear. It will be well for the
Government if it does, for in the long run the ultimate issue of the
conflict must depend on the Army, and the symptoms which have declared
themselves up to now are not reassuring. It is quite possible, however,
that the soap and the blankets which are to be given to the men may
allay their political restlessness. The Cavalry is said to have been all
along thoroughly reliable.

MOSCOW, _December 28th_.

Wednesday, the 20th of December, punctually at midday the strike began
in Moscow. The lift ceased working in the hotel, the electric light was
turned off and I laid in a large store of books and cigarettes against
coming events. The strike was said to be an answer to the summary
proceedings of the Government and its action in arresting leaders of the
revolutionary committee, &c., and its watchword was to be: “A
Constituent Assembly based upon universal suffrage.” Beyond the electric
light going out nothing happened on this day. On Thursday, the 21st,
most of the shops began to shut. The man who cleaned the boots in the
hotel made the following remark: “I now understand that the people enjoy
great power.” I heard a shot fired somewhere from the hotel at nine
o’clock in the evening. I asked the hall porter whether the theatres
were open. He said they were shut, and added: “And who would dream of
going to the theatre in these times of stress?”

The next day I drove with a friend into the country to a village called
Chernaia, about 25 versts from Moscow on the Novgorod road, which before
the days of railways was famous for its highway robberies and assaults
on the rich merchants by the hooligans of that day. We drove in a big
wooden sledge drawn by two horses, the coachman standing up all the
while. We went to visit two old maids, who were peasants and lived in
the village. One of them had got stranded in Moscow, and owing to the
railway strike was unable to go back again and so we took her with us,
otherwise she would have walked home. We started at 10.30 and arrived at
1.30. The road was absolutely still—a thick carpet of snow, upon which
fresh flakes drifting in the fitful gusts of wind fell gently. Looking
at the drifting flakes which seemed to be tossed about in the air, the
first old maid said that a man’s life was like a snowflake in the wind,
and that she had never thought she would go home with us on her sister’s
name-day.

When we arrived at the village we found a meal ready for us, which,
although the fast of Advent was being strictly observed and the food
made with fasting-butter, was far from jejune. It consisted of pies with
rice and cabbage inside, and cold fish and tea and jam, and some vodka
for me—the guest. The cottage consisted of one room and two very small
ante-rooms—the walls, floors, and ceilings of plain deal. Five or six
rich ikons hung in the corner of the room, and a coloured oleograph of
Father John of Kronstadt on one of the walls. A large stove heated the
room. Soon some guests arrived to congratulate old maid No. 2 on her
name-day, and after a time the pope entered, blessed the room, and sat
down to tea. We talked of the strike and how quiet the country was and
of the hooligans in the town. “No,” said the pope with gravity, “we have
our own hooligans.” A little later the village schoolmaster arrived, who
looked about twenty years old, and was a little tiny man with a fresh
face and gold-rimmed spectacles, with his wife, who, like the æsthetic
lady in Gilbert and Sullivan’s “Patience,” was “massive.” I asked the
pope if I could live unmolested in this village. He said, “Yes, but if
you want to work you won’t be quiet in this house, because your two
hostesses chatter and drink tea all day and all night.” At three o’clock
we thought we had better be starting home; it was getting dark, the snow
was falling heavily. The old maids said we couldn’t possibly go. We
should (1) lose our way, (2) be robbed by tramps, (3) be massacred by
strikers on the railway line, (4) not be allowed to enter the town, (5)
be attacked by hooligans when we reached the dark streets. We sent for
Vassili, the coachman, to consult with him. “Can you find your way
home?” we asked. “Yes, I can,” he said. “Shall we lose our way?” “We
might lose our way—it happens,” he said slowly, “it happens times and
again; but we might not—it often doesn’t happen.” “Might we be attacked
on the way?” “We might—it happens—they attack; but we might
not—sometimes they don’t attack.” “Are the horses tired?” “Yes, the
horses are tired.” “Then we had better not go.” “The horses can go all
right,” he said. Then we thought we would stay; but Vassili said that
his master would curse him if he stayed unless we “added” something.

So we settled to stay, and the schoolmaster took us to see the village
school, which was clean, roomy, and altogether an excellent home of
learning. Then he took us to a neighbouring factory which had not
struck, and in which he presided over a night class for working men and
women. From here we telephoned to Moscow and learned that everything was
quiet in the city. I talked to one of the men in the factory about the
strike. “It’s all very well for the young men,” one said, “they are
hot-headed and like striking; but we—we have to starve for a month.
That’s what it means.” Then we went to the school neighbouring the
factory where the night class was held. There were two rooms, one for
men presided over by the schoolmaster and one for women presided over by
his wife. They had a lesson of two hours in reading, writing, and
arithmetic. The men came to be taught in separate batches; one batch
coming one week, one another. This day there were five men and two boys
and six women. The men were reading a story about a bear—rather a
tedious tale. “Yes, we are reading,” one of them said to me, “and we
understand some of it.” That was, at any rate, consoling. They read to
themselves first, then aloud in turn, standing up, and then they were
asked to tell what they had read in their own words. They read
haltingly, with difficulty grasping familiar words. They related
fluently, except one man, who said he could remember nothing whatsoever
about the doings of the bear. One little boy was doing with lightning
rapidity those kind of sums which, by giving you too many data and not
enough—a superabundance of detail, leaving out the all that appears so
imperatively necessary—seem to some minds peculiarly insoluble. The sum
in question stated that a factory consisted of 770 hands—men, women, and
children, and that the men received half as much again as the women, &c.
That particular proportion of wages seems to exist in the arithmetic
books of all countries to the despair of the non-mathematical, and the
little boy insisted on my following every step of his process of
reckoning; but not even he with the wisdom and sympathy of babes
succeeded in teaching me how to do that kind of sum. He afterwards wrote
in a copybook pages of declensions of Russian nouns and adjectives. Here
I found I could help him and I saved him some trouble by dictating them
to him; though every now and then we had some slight doubt and
discussion about the genitive plural. In the woman’s class, one girl
explained to us, with tears in her eyes, how difficult it was for her to
attend this class. Her fellow-workers laughed at her for it, and at home
they told her that a woman’s place was to be at work and not to meddle
with books. Those who attend this school show that they are really
anxious to learn, as the effort and self-sacrifice needed are great.

We stayed till the end of the lesson and then we went home, where an
excellent supper of eggs, &c., was awaiting us. We found the two old
maids and their first cousin, who told us she was about to go to law for
a legacy of 100,000 roubles which had been left her, but which was
disputed by a more distant relation on the mother’s side. We talked of
law suits and politics and miracles, and real and false faith-healers,
till bedtime came. A bed was made for me alongside of the stove. Made is
the right word, for it was literally built up before my eyes. A sleeping
place was also made for the coachman on the floor of the small
ante-room; then the rest of the company disappeared to sleep. I say
disappeared, because I literally do not know where in this small
interior there was room for them to sleep. They consisted of the two old
maids, their niece and her little girl, aged three, and another little
girl, aged seven. My travelling companion slept in the room, but the
rest disappeared, I suppose on the top of the stove, only it seemed to
reach the ceiling; somewhere they were, for the little girl, excited by
the events of the day, sang snatches of song till a late hour in the
night. The next morning, after I got up, the room was transformed from a
bedroom into a dining-room and aired, breakfast was served, and at ten
we started back again in the snow to Moscow.

On the 23rd we arrived in the town at one o’clock. The streets of the
suburbs seemed to be unusually still. My companion said to me: “How
quiet the streets are, but it seems to me an uncanny, evil quietness.”
My companion lived in the Lobkovski Pereoolok, and I had the day before
sent my things from the hotel to an apartment in the adjoining street,
the Mwilnikov. When we arrived at the entrance of these streets we found
them blocked by a crowd and guarded by police and dragoons. We got
through the other end of the streets, and we were told that the night
before Fielder’s School, which is a large building at the corner of
these two streets, had been the scene of a revolutionary meeting; that
the revolutionaries had been surrounded in this house, had refused to
surrender, had thrown a bomb at an officer and killed him, had been
fired at by artillery, and had finally surrendered after killing one
officer and five men, with 17 casualties—15 wounded and two killed. All
this had happened in my very street during my absence. An hour later we
again heard a noise of guns, and the armed rising (of which some of the
leaders, who were to have seized the Governor-General of the town and
set up a provisional Government, had been arrested the night before in
my street) had nevertheless broken out in all parts of the town. A
little later I saw a crowd of people on foot and in sledges flying in
panic down the street shouting “Kazaki!” I heard and saw nothing else of
any interest during the day. There were crowds of people in the streets
till nightfall.

On Sunday, Christmas Eve, I drove to the hotel in the centre of Moscow
to see a friend. The aspect of the town was extraordinary. The streets
were full of people—_flâneurs_ who were either walking about or gathered
together in small and large groups at the street corners. Distant, and
sometimes quite near, sounds of firing were audible, and nobody seemed
to care a scrap; they were everywhere talking, discussing, and laughing.
Imagine the difference between this and the scenes described in Paris
during the street fighting in ’32, ’48, and ’71.

People went about their business just as usual. If there was a barricade
they drove round it. The cabmen never dreamt of not going anywhere,
although one said to me that it was very frightening. Moreover, an
insuperable curiosity seemed to lead them to go and look where things
were happening. Several were killed in this way. On the other hand, at
the slightest approach of troops they ran in panic like hares, although
the troops do not do the passers-by any mischief. Two or three times I
have been walking in the streets when dragoons galloped past, and come
to no harm. We heard shots all the time, and met the same groups of
people and passed two barricades. The barricades are mostly not like
those of the Faubourg St. Antoine, but small impediments made of
branches and an overturned sledge; they are put there to annoy and wear
out the troops and not to stand siege. The method of warfare that the
revolutionaries have adopted is a guerilla warfare of the streets. They
fire or throw bombs and rapidly disperse; they have made some attempts
to seize the Nikolaiev Railway Station, but have in all cases been
repulsed. The attitude of the man in the street is curious: sometimes he
is indignant with the strikers, sometimes indignant with the Government.
If you ask a person of revolutionary sympathies he will tell you that
sympathy is entirely with the revolution; if you ask a person of
moderate principles he will tell you that the “people” are indignant
with the strikers; but the attitude of the average man in the street
seems to me one of sceptical indifference in spite of all, in spite of
trade ceasing, houses being fired at, and the hospitals being full to
overflowing of dead and wounded. The fact is that disorders have lost
their first power of creating an impression; they have become everyday
occurrences.

Here are various remarks I heard. One man, a commissionaire, asked
whether I thought it was right to fire on the revolutionaries. I
hesitated, gathering my thoughts to explain that I thought that they
thoroughly deserved it since they began it, but that the Government
nevertheless had brought it about by their dilatoriness. (This is
exactly what I think.) Misunderstanding my hesitation, he said: “Surely
you, a _foreigner_, need not mind saying what you think, and you know it
is wrong.” (This was curious, because these people, commissionaires,
porters, &c., are often reactionary.) A cabman said to me: “Who do you
think will get the best of it?” I said, “I don’t know, what do you
think?” “Nothing will come of it,” he said. “There will still be rich
people like you and poor people like me, and whether the Government is
in the hands of the _chinovniks_ or the students is all one and the
same.” Another man, a porter, an ex-soldier, said it was awful. You
couldn’t go anywhere or drive anywhere without risking being killed.
Soldiers came back from the war and were killed in the streets. A bullet
came, and then the man was done for. Another man, a kind of railway
employee, said that the Russians had no stamina, that the Poles would
never give in, but the Russians would directly. Another man, fond of
paradox, said to me that he hoped all the fanatics would be shot, and
that then the Government would be upset. A policeman was guarding the
street which led to the hotel. I asked if I could pass. “How could I not
let a Barine with whom I am acquainted pass?” he said. Then a baker’s
boy came up with a tray of rolls on his head, also asking to pass—to go
to the hotel. After some discussion the policeman let him go, but
suddenly said, “Or are you a rascal?” Then I asked him what he thought
of it all. He said: “We fire as little as possible. They are fools.” The
fact is that among the wealthier and educated classes the feeling is
either one of intense sympathy or violent indignation with the
revolutionaries; among the lower classes it is a feeling of sceptical
resignation or indifference. “Things are bad—nothing will come of it for
us.”

_Christmas Day._

At midnight the windows of our house had been rattled by the firing of
guns somewhere near; but on Christmas morning (this is not the Russian
Christmas) one was able to get about. I drove down one of the principal
streets, the Kouznetski Most, into another large street, the Neglinii
Proiesd (as if it were down Bond Street into Piccadilly), when suddenly
in a flash all the cabs began to drive fast up the street. My cab went
on. He was inquisitive. We saw nothing. He shouted to another cab,
asking him what was the matter. No answer. We went a little further
down, when along the Neglinii Proiesd we saw a patrol and guns
advancing. “Go back,” shouted one of the soldiers, waving his rifle—and
away we went. Later, I believe there was firing there. Further along we
met more patrols and ambulances. The shops are not only shut but boarded
up.

Next day I walked to the Nikolaiev Station in the afternoon. It is from
here that the trains go to St. Petersburg; the trains are running now,
but how the passengers start I don’t know, for it was impossible to get
near the station. Cabs were galloping away from it, and the square in
front of it had been cleared by Cossacks. I think it was attacked this
afternoon. I walked into the Riansh Station, which was next door. It was
a scene of desolation: empty trains, stacked-up luggage, third-class
passengers encamped in the waiting-room. There was a perpetual noise of
firing. Practically the town is under martial law. Nobody is allowed to
be out of doors after nine o’clock under penalty of three months’
imprisonment or 3,000 roubles fine. Householders have been made
responsible for people firing out of their windows. The idea of
collective responsibility is a shock to some Russians. During the last
twenty years the system has led, through the perpetual shifting of
responsibility, to the annihilation of responsibility; and this in its
turn has produced a revolution of irresponsibility. Some people talk as
if the revolution were an evil element which had sprung from hell
without any cause, a sudden visitation like the plague, as if it were
not the absolutely logical and inevitable result of the particular form
of bad government which has obtained in Russia during the last twenty
years. These people pass a sponge over this fact. They say to people of
liberal ideas: “You have brought this about,” then, asked if they are in
favour of the Constitution, assent; which should prove them to be
opportunists. They do not like being called opportunists.

This morning, December 27th, there is considerable movement and traffic
in the streets; the small shops are open, and the tobacconists. News has
come from St. Petersburg of the Electorate Law. The question is now
whether it will satisfy the people. Firing is still going on; they say a
factory is being attacked. The troops who were supposed to be
disaffected have proved absolutely loyal. The one way to make them loyal
was to throw bombs at them. The policemen are now armed with rifles and
bayonets. I asked an educated man this afternoon if he thought the
Electorate Law would satisfy people. He said he thought not. He said
that the people demanded a far wider suffrage law. “Are you in favour
yourself of universal suffrage?” I asked. “No,” he answered; “but when I
see that the whole people demand it, I submit to the majority. The
Government has as yet _given_ nothing; everything has been torn from it,
and more will have to be torn from it.” One learns here at any rate not
to generalise and not to prophesy. A cabman said this afternoon: “There
is an illness abroad, we are sick, it will pass—but God remains.” I
agree with him.

I do not believe that it is a case of bricks falling out of a wall until
the wall falls down, but of a young tree shedding bark. The illness,
however, is a severe one, and it is idle to blame the patient for the
violence of his symptoms and the doctor for the inadequacy of his
remedies. The people to blame are those who made the patient ill by
feeding him on poison. And some of these have already met with their
just reward.

CHAPTER VII
MOSCOW AFTER THE RISING

MOSCOW, _January 1, 1906_.

If it is difficult—and it seems to be difficult to the verge of
impossibility—for the historian of the present day to write impartially
about political movements which happened in the days of Queen Elizabeth
and of Mary Queen of Scots, how infinitely more difficult must it be to
arrive at an impartial view of events when one is oneself in the centre
of them and living among the actors who are contributing to what is
afterwards called history! The historian solves the question by frankly
affiliating himself to one side (like Froude or Macaulay or Taine), and
he is probably right in doing this; I notice, also, that our most
eminent correspondents do the same. Therefore I confess at once that I
am in no way free from prejudices, and I make no pretence of invincible
impartiality; only I have seen and heard enough of both sides to learn
one thing—that the two parties who are now engaged in strife in Russia
are both right or both wrong. I will try to the best of my ability to
stifle my own feelings, and, like a piece of blotting-paper which
absorbs red or black ink indiscriminately, try to reproduce as best I
can fragments of what I absorb.

The strike is over, although I believe some revolutionaries are still
holding out in a factory near the Zoological Gardens. The shops are
open, the electric light is shining on the hard, snowy, ice-cold
streets, and life is going on, in the Russian expression, in its old
rut. I suppose the first question which will present itself to people
abroad anxious for information is: What did it all amount to? The second
question: What is the result of it? The third is possibly: What do the
people in Moscow, the inhabitant, the man in the street, think of it?
Practically, it did not amount to very much; a general strike was
proclaimed which was to take place all over Russia with the object of
obtaining universal suffrage. The strike was not universal. It was
closely followed by an armed rising of the revolutionary party in Moscow
with the object of arresting the Governor-General and establishing a
temporary Government. It resulted in complete and utter failure; and
this seems to point to one of two things: either that the revolutionary
party is less well organised than we supposed it to be, or that it
wrongly gauged popular feeling and no longer found such strong support
in public opinion as it did before. If it be judged by its recent action
it cannot be said to have given proof of any good organisation, since it
was obviously a mistake to foment a movement among the military—using
economic needs and demands as a weapon—a week before the strike began.
The economic demands were made by the soldiers, and satisfied
immediately, and their mutiny ceased. It is nonsense to pretend that the
soldiers have any revolutionary tendencies, and the revolutionaries made
a great mistake in trying to undermine their belief in the Emperor. The
same thing holds good as regards the peasants; and only yesterday a
person with ultra-Radical convictions said to me: “The peasant, if he is
hungry, can easily be made to loot and burn; but if he is replete he
will send anybody who talks politics to him to the devil, and if any one
attacks the Emperor before him he will tear him to pieces; possibly in
twenty or thirty years things will be different and he will be an
enlightened man; at present he is not, and there is no use in not facing
the fact. The revolutionaries have made a cardinal error in attacking
the peasants’ and the soldiers’ only ideal—call it ideal, idol, or what
you like.” Therefore I say that in this case the behaviour of the
revolutionaries showed neither insight nor statesmanship nor good
organisation. It is possible, of course, that the strike may have been
brought about, as I wrote before, by the workmen forcing the leaders’
hands, being unwilling to starve for a month but ready to rise in arms
and fight for several days.

Now, as to what actually happened. With regard to the loss of life most
people seem to be agreed in thinking that neither the revolutionaries
nor the soldiers suffered very great losses, but that nine-tenths of the
people killed were the onlookers among the public. Sometimes, of course,
it was their own fault; sometimes it was not. When firing was going on
it was as a rule difficult to get anywhere near it because the police
warned you “off the course.” But then one must take into account that
the streets in which the firing happened were inhabited, and that
sometimes the unfortunate inhabitants were shot through no fault of
their own. I think it is quite evident that there was a great deal of
entirely unnecessary and absolutely futile bombarding of private houses.
No doubt the revolutionaries fired from such houses; but they fired and
went away, and then the house was battered and the revolutionaries were
not caught. It must not be thought that Moscow is a heap of cinders as
in 1812. For the most part the actual traces of bombardment are slight.
The damage done to Fielder’s School, for instance, which is in my
street, amounts to this: that the windows are broken and there is one
hole in the wall. On the other hand, several houses have been entirely
destroyed, and the printing offices of the _Russkoe Slovo_ and some
factories burnt—it is difficult to ascertain by which side, but possibly
by both. This afternoon I went to a hospital to see some wounded
soldiers, and in one of the wards the windows had been shattered by a
bullet which had lodged in the cornice. Nothing will prevent me from
believing that it must be possible to ascertain whether you are firing
at a hospital, which is in one of the big streets of the town, or not.
The complaints of the inhabitants are universal. Some blame the soldiers
and some blame the revolutionaries, and one hears bitter stories from
both parties about the conduct of their adversaries. Those on the
Government side say: “What can you do against guerilla bands who dart
round corners, shoot policemen, and run away?” The others say: “What can
you think of people who shoot down the Red Cross doctors and bombard
private houses?” Again, the supporters of the Government say the
revolutionaries use and exploit the Red Cross and, under the guise of
Red Cross men, do murder. The others say again “The Government hires a
Militia drawn from the Black Hundred to shoot indiscriminately from the
tops of church steeples.” Again you hear a story like this (I do not
vouch for its truth): A student was surrounded by a mob, and on the
point of being lynched, when he was rescued by a policeman, and on the
way to the police station he shot the policeman. Or you hear that a
number of peaceable citizens were walking up a street when the soldiery
suddenly appeared and fired up the street indiscriminately. It must be
borne in mind that the people of Moscow had been fully warned to stay at
home as much as possible, that after six o’clock it was dangerous to go
out, and that groups of three or more people would be fired on at sight,
since the revolutionaries, who wear no uniform and are indistinguishable
from the ordinary passer-by, took shelter among such groups. A man in a
fur coat may, for all you know, have his pockets full of bombs. I know
three cases of people being accidentally killed: a little boy ran out of
his house, not into the street, but into the yard of his house to make a
slide. As he did so he was shot by a stray bullet. The proprietor of the
Ermitage Restaurant was also shot on his doorstep by a stray bullet.
Thirdly, Metrofan, a kind of porter who was a friend of mine, and about
whom I wrote in my last letter, has disappeared, and is not to be found
in any of the hospitals. He was the man—an ex-soldier—who said that it
was impossible to walk about safely (I laughed at him as he said it),
and if he has been killed—which I trust is not true—he seems to have had
the clearest presentiment of his fate. He was sent with a letter to a
place where firing was going on. It is just this sort of people who
suffered most: door-keepers and commissionaires who had to go about
their ordinary business and take the risk of being in dangerous places.
One extraordinarily typical incident was told me by an eye-witness. A
man was walking up the Neglinii Proiesd, a big street, in which the
Ermitage Restaurant is situated; he was deaf and could not hear the
noise of the firing; after a time he was wounded in the leg. He saw the
blood trickling on the snow, and he made the sign of the cross and lay
down and folded his arms together, resigning himself to fate. After a
time a poodle came along the street and began sniffing at his head; this
was more than he could bear, and he jumped up again and, not noticing
anything particular going on, pursued his way quietly home. I think the
police behaved exceedingly well and the soldiers as well as could be
expected. They were not, of course, responsible for indiscriminate
bombardments, which were entirely due to the military in authority, and
not, as is loosely stated, to the Governor-General, Admiral Dubassov. In
some cases the authorities showed almost inspired ineptness. For
instance, there is a large weaving factory in Moscow, the workmen of
which had not struck. The police, with Cossacks, made a raid on it at
night to search for arms. They found none; they ransacked the barracks
of the men, and the men among whose chattels they found leaflets or any
papers they beat. On the next day two-thirds of these men went on
strike. This happened yesterday. Another case of the sort of thing which
happens is worth mentioning. There is a house in which a Jew, a Liberal
family, and a rich pork butcher dwell. The Liberal family have a boy of
twelve, who had been talking about the revolution with pardonable boyish
excess of zeal. The pork butcher said that the whole place was going to
be blown up. On the following day soldiers arrived and began to shoot at
the house. The owner, on inquiring the reason, received the reply: “You
have got a Jew in the house, and we shall go on firing till you give us
a nachai (a _pourboire_).” They did this every day. What the trouble
really amounted to was this: an organised street fight, which lasted a
week (nothing at all approaching either 1832 or 1848 or 1871 in Paris),
and which caused a vast deal of damage to the inhabitants, and inflicted
on them a considerable loss of life, besides pecuniary losses resulting
from the stoppage of trade, &c. In the Paris Commune it should be
remembered that a great many people were shot in cold blood after it was
over, as a punishment, quite apart from the losses which occurred during
the fighting.

I am perfectly convinced, perhaps wrongly, that the Government is in
reality responsible for the troubles, owing to its dilatoriness in
making laws. I know the answer to this. It is said: “How can you carry
out reforms when the people won’t let you do so—when the moment they are
undertaken a series of strikes and disturbances begin, and public
servants behave in a manner which would not for a moment be tolerated in
the most progressive of Western nations?” On the other hand it is
obvious that all the strikes and disturbances which occurred during last
year arose from the fact of the delay in the granting of reforms. And
now when the people see this delay still existing, and, rightly or
wrongly, argue that nothing has been given them till they extorted it,
it is perhaps natural that their frame of mind should be one of excited
exasperation. The Government expects them to behave reasonably, act
reasonably, and think reasonably. They are in a frame of mind when
reasonable action or thought is difficult of attainment, and the cause
of their demented attitude is the action of the Government in the past.
I do not defend them, but I understand them. My heart is with them; my
head is against them. Their situation seems to me to resemble that of a
man who for years has been kept on the verge of starvation, and is
suddenly given champagne (liberty of the Press), and is promised a fixed
and daily system of meals, consisting of wholesome food (Parliament).
Then the same people who starved him begin to be dilatory in starting
his new _régime_. Is it not easy to understand that the conduct of such
a man would not be likely to be reasonable? I hope that one of the
results of the events in Moscow will be to make the Government realise
the pressing necessity of taking some steps to win the confidence of all
that is “Moderate” in Russia. I hope also that it will impress on all
the “Moderates” the necessity of combination and co-operation; because
the revolutionaries declare that they will strike again in March if they
do not get what they wish, and that the events of Moscow will be
repeated in St. Petersburg. If they decide on this, no amount of arrests
and repression will prevent them, and if the private houses of St.
Petersburg are to be subjected to indiscriminate bombardment the outlook
is indeed serious. Other results are these. The soldiers have been
proved to be loyal, but a Government cannot subsist on bayonets alone.
Again, there will be a large number of workmen out of work; these men
when they go back to their villages will be met with some such remarks
as these: “No money. You struck? What for? Get out.”

These two last mentioned facts should make strikes in the future more
difficult. Some people say that nothing will pacify the revolutionaries;
possibly, but the important question is, how far will the
revolutionaries be supported by public opinion? That depends entirely on
the action of the Government. It is certainly untrue to say that public
opinion in Moscow was against the revolutionaries, if it is an
exaggeration to say that it supported them. This leads us to another
question: What do the people here think of it all? In answer I can only
repeat what I said in my last letter: there exists violent and bitter
partisanship on both sides; there exists also a large class of onlookers
which is half-indifferent, half-resigned, and half-sceptical—in the main
indifferent. But if one is to go by facts one can point to the small
crowd—a selected and, in some parts, I believe, a paid crowd of men—who
attended the manifestation for the Emperor’s birthday, the vast crowd
which attended Bauman’s funeral, and the great numbers of working men
and others who have been fighting against the Government these last few
days. When I was talking to the wounded soldiers to-day in the hospital
they told me that they had heard from men returning from the Far East
that the reports of a large mutiny in the Army there were untrue, that
there had been discontent about not coming home and a small rising, but
nothing like what was reported. One man said to me: “We may ask for more
soup and meat, but is it likely we are going to mutiny for that? They
will give us more if we ask for it; soldiers can’t strike, it is as if
the whole population were to strike.” I refrained from pointing out that
this is what exactly had occurred in October. I answered by my simile of
the starving man who is suddenly given champagne.

To-day I tried the Sortes Virgilianæ with regard to the present
situation and the chief actors of the drama of Russia. The result was as
follows:

1. (For Count Witte)

“dextra discedens impulit altam
Haud ignara modi puppim.”—Æ. x. 245.

2. (The general situation)

“Extemplo turbati animi, concussaque vulgi
Pectora, et arrectæ stimulis haud mollibus iræ.
Arma manu trepidi poscunt; fremit arma juventus,
Flent mæsti mussantque patres. Hic undique clamor
Dissensu vario magnus se tollit in auras.”

Æ. xi. 451.

_January 2nd._

I went this afternoon, for the second time to-day, to the Soldiers’
Hospital. One of them asked me whether Paris was in Turkey. He said the
Turks were nice. Another asked me whether there wasn’t a place where it
was all water. I described Venice as best I could. On my way to the
hospital I went to the Hôtel Dresden. Metrofan has been killed. His
sister and his wife arrived in tears and in a terrible state. He was
shot by a shell.

_January 3rd._

In the hospital a soldier told me two fairy tales; one was about a
wizard, and the other was in octosyllabic verse. It took twenty-five
minutes to tell. When he alluded to the “cloak of darkness” he called it
a “waterproof” cloak.

_January 4th._

A cabman who drove me home last night drove me again to-day. He said it
was lucky I had taken him yesterday, because he had not had another
fare; and that he had told his comrades all about it, and had said he
would have been lost had not the Lord sent him a Barine, and such a
Barine too! (I had heavily overpaid him.) I said, “I suppose you said,
‘God sent you a fool.’” “Oh! Barine, don’t offend God,” he answered. The
cabmen are a constant source of amusement to me here. The other day,
when I was driving, the cabman stopped and made another one stop to
admire his horse. After we drove on again, we kept on meeting again, and
every time we met we slowed down, and the conversation about the horse
and how much it had cost was continued.

_January 5th._

I taught a soldier at the hospital the Latin alphabet. He said he would
write me a letter soon in Latin letters; only he did not understand the
use of the letters W and X; but he added, I will somehow or other find
letters which will serve as equivalents to these in the Russian
alphabet.

From having had much conversation with people who defend the
revolutionaries with what seems to me nonsensical exaggeration, I feel a
wave of reaction coming over me. I can never resist this subtle spirit
of contradiction when I am with people who belong to a party, and hear
them express party feeling in unmeasured and exaggerated terms. If I am
with violent Conservatives a subtle spirit of Liberalism rises within
me, and _vice versâ_. Besides this, I hate political _parties_.

CHAPTER VIII
THE “INTELLIGENZIA”

_January 6th._

I arrived at St. Petersburg this morning. I have been trying to
formulate my reactionary feelings. I will put them on paper; although I
know I shall only have to spend a very short time with real
reactionaries to be driven straight back into the opposite camp. But
lately at Moscow I have had a heavy dose of anti-governmental
unfairness. Too heavy for the present, although perhaps I shall one day
in the future think that it was not unfair at all.

I asked a man the other day, who is employed in the “Zemstva,” what
party he belonged to. “I belong to the party of common sense,” he
answered; “unfortunately it does not exist.” This exactly sums up, I
think, the impression that any impartial observer must necessarily
derive from the present situation in Russia. Common sense has gone.
Hysteria and undisciplined rant have taken its place.

First, the revolutionaries. There are two kinds of revolutionaries: the
active, who throw bombs at policemen and soldiers, who are ready to dare
anything and sacrifice themselves; and the passive revolutionaries who
sit at home and sympathise and talk a great deal. What is their point of
view?

1. They consider that all classes who are not definitely enrolled under
their flag are violent reactionaries and are fit to be classed with the
“Black Hundred.” The Duma that is to be, they say, will be a “Black
Hundred” Duma; the present Government is purely and simply a reactionary
Government composed of bureaucrats, and no good can come to Russia until
the ulcer is pierced to the core, and all bureaucrats, together with the
Emperor and all his family, and all his Court, are removed. The
objection that the present Government is merely temporary until the Duma
assembles, they meet with the counterargument that the Government, with
the franchise law as it is, is capable of influencing the elections to
any extent, and that the result will be a reactionary Duma.

2. The second question is—What do they want? They say they want a
Constituent Assembly and universal suffrage, and no doubt they do want
this. But whether they would be satisfied with this if they were given
it is another question. Personally, my experience has so far led me to
believe that they would in no wise be satisfied with this; I would lay
odds to this effect. I may, no doubt, be mistaken. I believe what they
really want is for Russia to become a federation of autonomous States
represented by a Republic. Some of the more moderate are either opposed
to this or refrain from stating any opinion in favour of it, owing to
the fact that they know that the Army and ninety million peasants are
ready to kill any one within reach if the “Gasudar” is to be tampered
with.

They fear that if the question of a Republic is brought forward there
will be a general massacre of the educated bourgeoisie, the so-called
“Intelligenzia.” Nothing is more probable. Some people say that nothing
will really change the attitude of these people: no more than any amount
of measures which one of Lord Salisbury’s Cabinets might have adopted
would have changed the opinion of the supporters of Mr. Gladstone or Sir
Henry Campbell-Bannerman, or _vice versâ_. That it is utterly futile to
expect common sense or common fairness from them. That they have their
party feeling, to which they are ready to sacrifice everything, and that
it is infinitely stronger and more bitter, and necessarily stronger and
more bitter, than anything of which we have had experience in England
during the last century.

Some people object that they understand the militant revolutionaries
being in this frame of mind, but they do not understand the more
intelligent passive and detached supporters of the advanced party
sharing such childish views. The more intelligent and detached
supporters are even more violent in their talk than the militant
fighters. At present the kind of argument one hears used is like the
following, which I have heard with my own ears. I have heard intelligent
cultivated people say: “How wicked and cowardly of the Government to
fire upon the revolutionaries, since they have guns and the
revolutionaries haven’t got any.” The English mind, which, be it Liberal
or Conservative, tends to common sense, revolts against such reasoning.
It is rare to find in Russia an Englishman who sympathises with the
revolutionaries. English common sense revolts at the hysterical
impatience which demands the immediate fulfilment of measures more
radical and socialist than exist in any European state, and the common
British sense of fairness is violated at hearing of the wanton murder of
policemen, who earn a poor living and are in no way responsible for the
misdeeds of the Government, exalted as a patriotic execution worthy of
Harmodius and Aristogiton.

On the other hand I think we fail—I am alluding to Englishmen who visit
Russia, and not to those who live here permanently—to realise that the
Russians have been up to now destitute of certain guarantees which
Englishmen regard as a matter of course, and that they do not consider
they have obtained these guarantees yet; and here it is difficult to
contradict them.

Lately an incident happened which has proved a kind of focussing glass
concentrating the opinions of both parties. The revolutionaries walked
into the house of the head of the detective police service, dragged him
from his family circle and shot him. Somewhat later a police officer
named Ermolov walked into the house of a doctor and shot him before his
wife’s eyes. The officer gave himself up to the authorities and said his
act was due to momentary aberration. Around these incidents both parties
wage a war of tongues. The sympathisers with the revolutionaries talk of
the martyrdom of the doctor; whereas their opponents say that the fuss
they are making is unjustifiable since they did the very same thing.

Personally I think that the weak side of the Government case is this:
that the revolutionaries are sure of punishment if caught; whereas the
official who does wrong is not punished, and his wrong-doing is surely
more heinous because he is the representative of the law. On the other
hand I think the wanton murder of policemen has nothing of the heroic in
it, and when I hear it spoken of in terms of admiration I am disgusted.

As to the opponents of the revolutionaries, they also attack the
Government, and especially Count Witte. They say that the only
supporters of Count Witte are foreigners. The _Slovo_ newspaper said,
for instance, that foreigners only supported Count Witte because they
desired the enfeeblement of Russia. But reactionaries say that the
Russian revolution is entirely fostered and supported by a foreign
Government. Now it cannot be to the French Government’s interest for
Russia’s credit to collapse, nor can it be to the German Government’s
interest for Russia to become a federation of autonomous States;
therefore it must be the English Government, and, when pressed, they
admit this. But if the English Press is trying to ruin Russia by
supporting Count Witte, it is obvious that it cannot be at the same time
trying to ruin Russia by supporting the revolutionaries. One of these
two statements must be untrue; quite apart from the question as to
whether the collapse of Russia’s credit would prove a material advantage
to England. The fact is that the reactionaries who talk in this strain
are politically limited in their ideas; they know practically nothing
either of England or of any other country, they merely repeat old
catchwords and musty traditions which have been proved to be absurd.

Now apart from these reactionary Jingoes, who are really of no
importance whatsoever now, there is a large class of people who six
months ago would have been called red revolutionaries, and who now call
themselves “Moderates,” and are called by the revolutionaries members of
the “Black Gang.”

These people wish for the most speedy fulfilment of the Manifesto of the
17th of October; they blame the Government for its delay in making laws,
and they blame Count Witte. But they look upon the Duma as being
competent to settle the various aspirations of the various parties. They
should be a strong party; the trouble is that up to the present time
they have never seen their way either to support the Government or to
form a homogeneous party among themselves. It is possible that the
recent events at Moscow may have the effect of causing them to coalesce.
It is to be hoped that this will happen; for in them lies the safe _via
media_ between the two extremes of reaction and anarchy.

It will be noticed that all these various parties are united with regard
to one detail, that is in their blame of Count Witte. It is also worth
mentioning that in all the innumerable attacks made on Count Witte
nobody has so far had the ingenuity or the perspicacity to name his
possible successor. Would the revolutionaries really like him to go? I
doubt it. They would have, in the first place, nobody to attack; in the
second place, they would risk having a more reactionary successor. For
that reason I have never up to now believed in any of the countless
reports regarding Count Witte’s immediate resignation.

At present the Government is feeling extremely confident owing to the
way in which recent events have turned out; the revolutionaries also
profess to be in no wise disheartened; they say that the Moscow rising
is nothing in comparison with what they will do in March, and that
seeing that they have exhausted the efficacy of strikes and armed
risings they will adopt the method of terrorism and blow up Government
buildings with dynamite (in March). I have heard intelligent
sympathisers with the revolutionaries talking of such a policy with
enthusiasm, saying that this is the only way to deal with the
Government, and that the Duma, such as it will be, is not only of no
account but will never come into existence.

These people are members of the Russian “Intelligenzia,” or middle
professional class. They have many admirable qualities, and I live among
them and like them; but I think that sometimes some of their members
talk most wildly and ought to know better. Up to now, of course, they
have been carefully prevented by the Government from taking any part in
politics whatsoever, and they feel now that vast possibilities have been
opened to them; that it is they who made the revolution, and that it is
they who are going to rule the country.

Only at present they have not succeeded in producing a great man. They
arrogate to themselves the position of sole spokesmen and
representatives of the Russian people, and at this also common sense
revolts. For apart from the fact of the peasants distrusting them, and
the Army hating them, what have they done for Russia? Possibly it was
not they who brought about the Constitution. They class the whole gentry
and aristocracy with the Bureaucrats under one sweeping ban of blame and
abuse; but the gentry laid the foundations of reform and revolution long
before they existed as a class at all (_vide_ the Decembrists, 1825).
Moreover, the gentry gave to Russia Poushkin, Lermontov, Gogol, Tolstoi,
Turgeniev, Tchaikovski, and Dostoievski; in fact, her literature, her
art, her music, her poetry; all her great men and men of genius. In the
sphere of the arts they have made Russia hideous by importing a debased
_art nouveau_ from Munich; and in the sphere of literature they have
produced some excellent writers of short stories. In verse (the verse of
such writers as “Skitaletzt” is weaker than the prose of Andreev and
Co.) the English equivalent would be the political poetry of Mr. Alfred
Austin; the political tendencies of the Russian writers, of course,
differ widely from that of the English Laureate, whose work, although it
has met with public recognition, would, perhaps, have made England less
famous as a literary nation were it the sole representative of our
poetical literature.

Now that I have disburdened myself on the subject of the unfairness of
the “Intelligenzia,” I feel better. According to the oriental fashion I
should at once add counter-arguments giving all that there is to be said
in their favour. This I will do another day.

MOSCOW, _January 13th_.

I came back to Moscow on the 10th. I saw the old year out (it is the
Russian New Year’s Eve) with the kind family who live on the floor above
mine, and with whom I always have my meals. They played Vindt all night.
When the New Year came “A happy New Year” was drunk in champagne.

CHAPTER IX
THE BEGINNING OF THE REACTION

MOSCOW, _January 14th_.

To-day is the Russian New Year’s Day. To-day is also Sunday, so it would
seem a fitting occasion to preach a long sermon on Russia. I have been
amusing myself by finding suitable texts for such a sermon. They are all
from the works of Renan, a man who gave a good deal of thought to the
various political movements and phases of the world’s history, and
expressed himself with that nice lucidity and divine ease which we call
a perfect style.

The first is this: “La Révolution française fut la gageure d’un petit
nombre d’énergumènes qui réussirent à faire croire qu’ils avaient
entraîné la nation.”

No. 2: “Éternelle puérilité des répressions pénales, appliquées aux
choses de l’âme.”

No. 3: “Dans ses accès de vertu, l’homme croit pouvoir se passer
entièrement de l’égoisme et de l’intérêt propre; l’égoisme prend sa
revanche, en prouvant que l’absolu désintéressement engendre des maux
plus graves que ceux qu’on avait cru éviter par la suppression de la
propriété.”

These are my texts, and, as is usually the case when the text is good,
the sermon is superfluous.

New Year’s Day is, we are so often told, a good occasion to look forward
and behind. What, then, is the outlook at present? Life is going on at
St. Petersburg and Moscow exactly as usual, and here, save in the
smouldering ruins of the factory of the Presnaya and various broken
windows and damaged cornices, there is nothing to tell one that anything
unusual has occurred. The Government is said to be confident. Foreign
loans are in the air. The revolutionaries, it is said, have been crushed
and dispersed. Electioneering work is beginning; in fact, all is going
as well as can be expected. That is one view—an optimistic view which I
do not altogether share. In the first place, when people say that the
Revolutionary Party or its leaders are a minority I would reply by
quoting text No. 1. “Laws, in a country which is following an idea, are
always made by the minority,” says Renan, immediately before the
sentence I have quoted.

Secondly, the Moscow episode does not seem to me to have affected the
revolutionary movement in the slightest degree. The numbers of the
killed among the insurgents were trifling; all the important and real
leaders of the Revolution had left Moscow before this affair, which was,
in fact, conducted by boys and girls; and if a number of boys and girls
can, at the head of a mass of workmen, bring the garrison to
distraction, take guns from the troops, and force the authorities to
bombard the houses of the inhabitants without raising universal
indignation, things must be fairly serious.

To say that they have alienated public sympathy is certainly untrue; for
although they started the fighting, as soon as the authorities answered
with artillery the common ordinary man in the street began in many cases
to say that it was the fault of the Government and the authorities.
Sympathy in Russia is always certain to be with the people who are shot,
be they right or wrong.

“Whatever happens, we have got
The Maxim-gun and they have not.”

That is, they argue, the motto of the authorities, and that is exactly
the sentiment which arouses the indignation of the citizen. A cabman
asked some one the other day when they were going to punish “him.” Who
is “him”? he was asked. “Admiral Dubassov,” was the answer. “Surely the
Emperor will punish him for shooting at the houses.” The energetic
manner in which the rising was suppressed has, I am told, produced a
good effect in Europe; doubtless energetic measures were not only
necessary but imperative in the first instance; whether the continuation
of them now is a mistake or not only the future can show. One fact,
however, is certain, and that is that these measures are being conducted
with the same arbitrariness which has characterised the action of the
Russian police in the past, and are causing intense exasperation. There
is a word in Russian, “Proisvol,” which means acting, like Wordsworth’s
river, according to your “own sweet will,” unheedful of, and often in
defiance of, the law. It is precisely this manner of acting which has
brought about the revolution in Russia. It is against the “Proisvol”
that all the educated classes and half the official class rebelled. And
it is this very “Proisvol” against which the whole country rose on
strike, which the Government promised should henceforth disappear, and
which is at the present moment triumphantly installed once more as the
ruling system.

Of course it may be objected that anarchy and lawless revolution can
only be met by severe repression; but the question is: Must it be met by
arbitrary and lawless repression? Hang the insurgents if you like, but
why shoot a doctor who has got nothing to do with it before you know
anything about him? To stop a newspaper like the _Russkie Viedomosti_,
for instance, is an act of sheer “Proisvol,” the reason given being that
it had subscription lists for workmen’s unions, which it denies, saying
that the money was for the wounded. Here I point to my second text. All
this repression seems to me utterly futile. The future, however, can
show whether this is indeed so.

In the meantime election programmes are appearing. That of the
Constitutional Democrats has come out, and is moderate in tone, although
its clauses are extensive. It insists, among other things, on universal
suffrage and an eight-hours’ day for the workmen. Here I would point to
text 3. Everybody whom I have seen in Russia in any way connected with
the working man is agreed in saying that an eight-hours’ day is an
absolute impossibility. That a Russian workman’s eight hours means in
reality about six hours. That no factory in Russia could exist on these
terms. The Constitutional Democrats seem in this case to have omitted
the factor of human egoism and interest.

One of the gravest factors of the general situation is that Eastern
Siberia seems to be entirely in the hands of the revolutionaries, who
are apparently managing the railway and everything else with perfect
order, while the troops, anxious only to get home, are taking any
engines they can lay hands on and racing back, one train literally
racing another!

Altogether it cannot be said that the outlook is particularly cheerful.
There is one bright point so far, and that is that all parties seem
anxious to convoke the Duma. The Liberals want it, the Conservatives
want it, the Extreme Radicals sanction the elections. The Radicals say
it will be packed by the Government; but I do not see how this is
possible. They say they will let it meet, and that if it proves “a Black
Hundred Duma” they will destroy it. They call everything which is not
Radical “Black Hundred.” But, as I have said before, and as I cannot
tire of saying, it is useless to blame these extreme parties for talking
nonsense. They have been driven to this nonsense by the still greater
want of sense on the part of the Government of Russia during the last
twenty years, and in wanting to wipe out this system altogether they
are, after all, in the right. Unfair they may be, hysterical, and
absurd. So were the Jacobins; but the absurdity, extravagance, and
violence of the Jacobins were only the logical result of the “Ancien
Régime.” So it is here, although it is misleading to compare the present
movement in Russia with the French Revolution.

And behind all the rumours and conflicts of various parties looms the
agrarian question; the ninety million peasants who till the land in the
same manner in which they tilled it four hundred years ago; whose land
from generation to generation dwindles by partition, while the
population increases. How and when is this question going to be solved?
It can only be solved by the education of the peasants themselves; but
the question is what can be done to gain time and to make this education
possible. My outlook is, perhaps, too pessimistic. I do not know. I only
feel that the whole revolutionary movement is beyond all forces of
control, and that no measures in the world can put it back now; whether
it could by wisdom be led into safe channels is another question. Such a
thing has seldom been seen in the history of the world, and it is, after
all, only out of the past that we make the future.

To get rid of these gloomy ideas I went to the hospital, where New
Year’s Day was celebrated with great gusto; there was a Christmas-tree,
dancing and song, and it was delightful to see a little tiny boy and a
huge soldier dancing opposite each other. The Russian peasants dance to
each other, and separately, of course, like Highlanders when they dance
a reel or a schottische. It was gay and yet rather melancholy; there
were so many cripples, and it reminded me a little of the Christmas
feast described in Dostoievski’s “Letters from a Dead House.”

_January 18th._

To-day I heard a characteristic story. A student told it to me. A
peasant was looking at a rich man’s house in one of the streets of
Moscow. An agitator went up to him and said: “Think of the rich man
living in that great house, and think of your miserable position.”

“Yes,” said the peasant cheerfully, “it’s a big house; he’s a proper
Barine.”

“But,” said the agitator, much irritated, “it’s most unjust that he
should live in such a big house and that you should live in a small
house. You should turn him out of it.”

“How could that be?” answered the peasant. “He is used to being rich.
All his life he has lived in plenty. What would he do in poverty? We are
used to poverty, and we must have pity on those who are not used to it.”

The agitator then gave the peasant up and went away in disgust.

_January 20th._

I arrived in St. Petersburg this morning. Yesterday a Russian friend of
mine discussed with me my ideas on the “Intelligenzia” and their
revolutionary sympathies which I had embodied in a letter to the
_Morning Post_. My friend said that I had committed a gross injustice to
the Russian “Intelligenzia,” and that my letter, by reflecting the
opinion of Englishmen who had spent but a short time in Russia, and
judged everything from the point of view of a country where political
liberty had long since been an established fact, gave a wrong
impression. There is some truth in this, no doubt. It is difficult here
to keep a cool head and not to be swayed by circumambient influence. The
danger does not lie in being influenced by those who immediately
surround one, but rather in being influenced inversely by their
opinions. I mean one has only to talk to a revolutionary or to a
conservative long enough, at the present moment, to be convinced that
his adversary is right. I still hold, however, to what I wrote about the
unfairness and exaggerations of the sympathisers with the revolution
among the “Intelligenzia.” I think they are incapable of looking at the
matter impartially, and no wonder. Moreover, the Government past and
present is responsible for their frame of mind. Again, I still hold to
what I said, that the “Intelligenzia” have not produced a great man; but
instead of retracting what I said, I will, as I said I would do, after
the oriental fashion, having stated all that there was to be said
against them, try and set forth all that is to be said in favour of the
“Intelligenzia.”

In the first place, what is the “Intelligenzia”? Properly speaking, it
is composed of every one who can read or write. But the term is
generally used to designate those members of the middle class who belong
to the professional classes—doctors, professors, teachers, journalists,
and literary men. In its largest sense it is the whole middle class,
from which nine-tenths of the officials are drawn. But when Russians
speak of it they generally mean the middle class, excluding officials.
Such as it is, it contains, as well as the most hot-headed
revolutionaries and violent youths, all that is best and most
intelligent and cultivated in Russia, all men of science who have done
remarkable work in various branches, all doctors, whose life in the
country is a life of difficulty and self-sacrifice which it would be
difficult to exaggerate, all the professors and the teachers, the
actors, the singers, the musicians, the artists, the writers. These
people have for years been the absolute prey of the irresponsibility and
blundering stupidity of the higher bureaucrats. They have with
difficulty been able to obtain foreign books (Matthew Arnold’s “Essays
on Criticism” was one of the books on the index two years ago); in
teaching, half the facts of history have been forbidden them; and at the
slightest suspicion of not being “well-intentioned” they have been
placed under police surveillance and often been subjected to gross
indignities. Is it to be wondered at that they are bitter now? The
average man and woman of the Russian middle class is incomparably better
educated than the average English man or woman of the same class. They
are saturated with the foreign classics. They often speak two languages
besides Russian; and they are conversant with modern thought in the
various European countries as far as it is allowed to reach them. When
one sees the average Englishman abroad one is aghast at his ignorance
and his want of education in comparison with these people. I have
constantly, both here and in Manchuria, found to my shame that I knew
nothing of English history in comparison with the Russians I met. The
reason is very simple: they are taught at school things which will be
useful to them. Every one is given a general foundation of knowledge. I
do not believe the average Englishman to be more stupid than the average
foreigner, but he is not educated. A man may go through a public school
and even a university in England and come out at the end ludicrously
ignorant of everything except the classical books he was obliged to “get
up,” and at our public schools, with a few brilliant exceptions, the
education of the average boy amounts to this: that he does not learn
Latin and Greek, and he certainly learns nothing else. I never heard
English history mentioned at Eton, and all the English history I know I
learnt in the nursery. The average Russian boy knows far more about
English history than the average English boy, let alone European
history; and a cultivated Russian of the middle class is saturated with
John Stuart Mill, Herbert Spencer, Ruskin, John Morley, Buckle, and
Carlyle; whereas Shakespeare, Milton, Byron, and Shelley are treated as
Russian classics. Only yesterday I travelled with a man who, although he
could not speak English, was intimately conversant with our whole
literature, and told me that the whole generation to which he belonged
had been taught to find their intellectual food in England and not in
France and Germany. “How is it,” he asked me, “that we Russians who live
on English thought, and admire and respect you as a nation far more than
other nations, have been so long at loggerheads with you politically?” I
said that I thought the reason was that, although the cultivated and the
average educated Russian knows our literature well, the nation as a
whole does not know us, and we do not know Russia at all—for most
intelligent Englishmen are ludicrously ignorant of Russia. Besides this,
the bureaucratic _régime_ has acted like a barrier between the two
countries and fostered and fed on the misunderstanding.

As far as politics are concerned things have moved on. Some weeks ago it
was possible to believe that the Government had been wantonly hampered
in its well-intentioned efforts, now it is only too plain that by their
acts they are doing their best to justify the violence of the
revolutionaries. The “Proisvol” (arbitrariness) continues on an
extensive scale. People in Moscow are arrested every day and without
discrimination. Influential people do not dare to inscribe their names
on the lists of the Constitutional Democratic Party for fear of being
arrested. The police have unlimited powers, and all the methods of the
old _régime_ are flourishing once more. I do not believe, as is sure to
be objected, that the action of the revolutionaries has rendered this
necessary. I do not believe that the best way to fight revolution is by
lawless and arbitrary repression. Lastly, and most important, it is not
the immorality or the illegality of the methods that I find
reprehensible, but their stupidity and ineffectiveness. If all this
repression were the iron working of one great central mind, which
ruthlessly imposed its will on the nation, breaking down all obstacles
and restoring order, it would be excusable. But it is not. I do not
believe the Government is responsible for what happens in Moscow; and in
Moscow itself the various authorities shift the responsibility on to
each other. It is the old story of the bureaucratic system—no
responsibility and no individual efficiency, but a happy-go-lucky,
drifting, and blind incompetence, striking where it should not strike,
being lenient too late, and never foreseeing what is under its very
nose. When one comes to think, it is not surprising, considering that
the instruments with which Count Witte has to deal are of the old
regulation bureaucratic pattern. How, for instance, can the Minister of
the Interior, M. Durnovo, be expected to adopt any other methods than
those which are ingrained in him? It is as if the Liberals persuaded Mr.
Chamberlain to speak at a public meeting and then expressed surprise at
finding that he was in favour of Tariff Reform. When some of the
revolutionaries were summarily executed after the recent troubles in
Moscow, a sentence of Tacitus came back to me which is peculiarly
applicable to the old Russian bureaucratic methods: “Interfectis Varrone
consule designate et Petronio Turpiliano consulari ... inauditi atque
indefensi tamquam innocentes perierunt” (Varro and Turpilianus were
executed without trial and defence, so that they might just as well have
been innocent).

The whole system of arresting doctors and professors, prohibiting
newspapers and plays, censoring books and songs, is now, whatever may
have been its effect in the past, childishly futile. Moreover, even this
is blunderingly done. The harmless newspapers are suppressed and more
violent ones appear. But the point is the futility of it all; as soon as
a serious newspaper is stopped it reappears on the next day under
another name. Each repressed satirical newspaper (and these journals are
often exceedingly scurrilous) finds a successor. It is not as if the
revolutionaries were the result of the newspapers; it is the newspapers
which are the reflection of the revolutionaries; and until you can
repress every revolutionary the spirit which finds its vent in these
organs will exist. To repress the Liberal spirit altogether it will be
necessary to suppress nearly all the thinking population of Russia. The
only hope is that all this is, after all, only temporary, and that the
meeting of the Duma will put an end to this riot of lawlessness and
inefficiency. One competent man like Count Witte is not enough to deal
with things which are happening all over the country in so large a place
as Russia, and he is bound to trust himself to minor authorities—and
these in many cases prove themselves unfit for their task. “Why are they
chosen?” it may be asked. The answer is: “Who else is there to choose
until the whole pack of cards is thoroughly reshuffled or rather
destroyed, and a new pack, men chosen by the Duma, is adopted?”

“But,” it is objected, “however much you reshuffle the cards, the pack
will be the same.” This is true; but one radical change would make all
the difference in the world, and that would be the introduction of the
system of responsibility. Whenever there has been in a Russian town a
governor who had declared his firm intention of holding his subordinates
responsible for their acts, and has put such a declaration into
practice, things have always gone well. There was for years a chief of
the police at Moscow, who was just such a man. The trouble is now, that
however good a subordinate official may be, there is no guarantee that
he may not be removed at any minute owing to the passing whim of those
who are above.

CHAPTER X
CURRENT IDEAS IN ST. PETERSBURG

ST. PETERSBURG, _January 27th_.

People are now saying that the revolutionary movement in Russia has
suffered a complete defeat. I do not share this point of view; my reason
is not based upon prophetic discernment into the future, but on what has
happened in the past.

If we are in the presence of a stream and note the beginnings of its
turbulent course, and then observe that it has met with the obstacle of
a dam and burst through that obstacle, and that this occurrence has been
repeated six times, with the result that every time the dam has been
burst the stream has gathered in strength, when this dam is made a
seventh time we are justified in concluding that as the dam is the same
in kind as it was before, and the stream also, the stream will break
through it a seventh time, although every time the dam was made the
onlookers made the observation that the progress of the stream was
definitively impeded. Now this is precisely what has happened with
regard to the Russian revolutionary movement up to the present time. And
we are now witnessing an act of a drama which began in 1895.

The course of events was like this: When the Emperor Nicholas II. came
to the Throne a deputation of the Zemstva were told that their moderate
demands for the beginning of reform were senseless dreams. Upon these
words the first dam was built, and it took the form of universal
repression.

In December, 1904, the ukase, embodying the nullified projects of Prince
Mirsky, was immediately followed by a threatening Manifesto, and a
second dam was made. This dam, however, was ineffectual, and it was
followed by the rising of the workmen of the 9th of January, and when
this meeting was dispersed by the troops, and a third dam constructed,
people said—and among them people who lived here and ought to have known
better—that the Russian revolution was over. February 18th saw the
publication of the two contradictory Manifestoes and the Boulygin
project, and during this time the dam took the shape of the Trepoff
dictatorship, which, as General Trepoff is a competent man, proved to be
for the time being more effectual than the obstacles which had hitherto
been employed.

However, in spite of this there came the incidents of the mutiny on
board the _Kniaz Potemkin_ and at Kronstadt and Libau. This was followed
by the concession of the law giving the Duma on August 6th, which was
accompanied by a law forbidding public meetings. A fourth dam had been
made. But the current only increased in strength. The Agrarian movement
began. The Labour movement increased. Meetings took place everywhere
till the dam burst, owing to the fact that the whole of Russia went on
strike in October, 1905.

Then the Manifesto of the 17th of October was given—a Manifesto granting
freedom of meeting and of speech, but no laws. It was followed by the
declaration of martial law in Poland. This measure was in its turn
succeeded by the St. Petersburg strike, the Sevastopol mutiny, and a
violent agrarian agitation in the province of Saratov, which spread all
over the “black soil” country in Russia. Repressive measures followed.
The Zemstvo leaders then addressed themselves to Count Witte, and asked
for a cessation of repressive measures, the control of irresponsible
bureaucrats in the provinces, and the right of universal suffrage. This
was refused. The postal officials, who had formed a union, were
arrested; there ensued postal strikes in St. Petersburg and Moscow.
Thereupon a law was promulgated—this was the fifth dam—by which each
provincial governor could declare his government to be outside the law.
This was followed by the armed rising in Moscow, and after this a sixth
dam was made by the adoption of repressive measures of arrest all over
Russia.

Now, such questions as whether the revolutionary party was right or
wrong; whether they were too much in a hurry, and too impulsive and
violent in their methods; whether postal officials and Government
servants are justified in striking, &c., are altogether beside the mark.
The fact is that they have six times been successful in bursting the
barrier which has been placed to oppose them. And now once again people
are saying that because the movement has been temporarily
checked—because a dam has been made—the movement is over; that the
stream will not be able to continue its course. This is where I take
leave to differ from those who have from the first predicted the
ultimate collapse of the revolutionary movement. I differed then—in
January, 1905—and I continue to differ now. I am aware that I am laying
myself open to the charge of prophesying. “When you keep a diary,” said
a shrewd observer of a past generation, “don’t write down public events
which you can find in any record, but put down what you think will
happen, and then you will be astonished to see how wrong you have been.”

ST. PETERSBURG, _February 1st_.

I have been amusing myself by putting down some current ideas—those of
some people I have met here and some of my own, in the form of a
dialogue. The people represented are not real people. They are scarcely
even types, but mere mouthpieces of current ideas. I have not tried to
describe a conversation such as one now hears in Russia, but I have
attempted to put in the form of dialogue certain ideas I have heard
expressed by my friends and certain opinions which have occurred to
myself during such intercourse.

“There are three parties I could belong to,” said the small landlord;
“the alliance of October 17th, the alliance of Right and Order, and the
Constitutional Democratic Party. I would be willing to support any one
of these three, in the hope that they would lead directly or indirectly
to the disappearance of the present dynasty and to the establishment of
a real autocracy.”

The student laughed. “The Constitutional Democrats will not lead you to
an autocracy of any kind,” he said.

“I am not so sure,” said the landlord. “Napoleon was the child of the
Revolution, and so was Cromwell. I support the Radicals in the same way
in which I would have supported the Puritans to get rid of Charles I.,
and make way for Cromwell.”

“And Charles II.?” asked the professor, who had just returned from a
prolonged stay in England.

“Precisely, and Charles II.,” said the landlord. “The Charles the Firsts
of history are invincibly ignorant, whereas the Charles the Seconds have
learned the lesson and make ideal monarchs. One cannot always be
governed by men of genius, and in the intervening period, when the
genius is absent, I prefer to be governed by a man of the world, such as
Charles II. or Louis XVIII., rather than by demagogues and idealists.”

“It is better to be governed by honest demagogues and idealists than by
dishonest Bureaucrats,” said the student. “The Bureaucrats made the
war.”

“When the war was declared you students marched cheering into the
streets, and I myself happening to be in uniform that day—I am in the
Reserve—was carried in reluctant triumph on the shoulders of an
enthusiastic crowd. The war can be blamed, not because it was immoral,
for it was not more immoral than any other war, but because it was made
too late, and because it was unsuccessful.”

“The war,” said the professor, “was a war made by irresponsible
capitalists, in the same way as the South African War was the work of a
gang of financiers, and had a true Englishman of genius, such as
Gladstone or Bright, been alive, the war would not have been possible.”

“Yes,” said the student, “the feeling here was never so great against
England during this war as during the war in South Africa.”

“The English,” answered the landlord, “made the same mistake as we did;
they knew nothing about South Africa, and made the war later than they
should have done; had they waited longer the Afrikander element would
have probably turned them out of South Africa altogether, and they would
have lost their prestige and their Colonies. Bismarck foresaw this, and
hoped that it might happen.”

“The English have gained nothing by having betrayed their ancient
tradition, and sacrificed to false gods,” said the professor, “but now
they are returning to the true path, and it is to Liberal England that
we must look for example and support.”

“You mean,” said the landlord, “that one set of men, including some
bright intellects and a number of average, that is to say, mediocre men,
have been replaced by another set of men containing exactly the same
proportion of capacity, mediocrity, and incompetence. By what miracle
are they to govern the country better or worse than their opponents?
Have they shown that they could do so in the past? And I would apply
this argument to the situation here. Do you imagine that a Ministry
composed of intellectuals would be radically different from a Ministry
composed of Bureaucrats? The intellectuals will be merely Bureaucrats
who have not learnt their business, and when they have learnt their
business they will be Bureaucrats; that is, perhaps, why the Zemstvo
leaders were reluctant to enter the Cabinet.”

“The Zemstvo leaders were reluctant to join Count Witte because they
disapproved of his programme,” said the student, “and, whether they
become Bureaucrats or no, they will be under the control of society.”

“The Bureaucrats are blamed for lawlessness,” said the landlord, “but
the revolutionaries seem to me so entirely incapable of controlling
themselves that they do not lead one to believe in their capacity for
controlling other people. The fact is that we Russians are all a mixture
of lawlessness and apathy. We are blamed for our apathy, for our want of
co-operation, but I thank Heaven for it, for did it not exist, the
lawlessness would lead to excesses of a dangerous character; as it is,
there is no country where an individual can enjoy such a degree of
personal freedom as in Russia. Russia is the only country where the
words liberty, fraternity, and equality have any reality. These things
are facts in Russia. But they are not facts in England. First, as
regards liberty. There is no liberty either of thought or _mœurs_ in
England. Liberty of thought flourishes under an autocracy; in the reign
of Nero, Renan tells us, ‘la liberté de penser ne fit que gagner. Cette
liberté-là se trouve toujours mieux d’avoir affaire à un roi ou à un
prince qu’à des bourgeois jaloux et bornés.’ I do not consider my
liberty of thought to be violated if I can only read an eclipsed version
of the leading articles of the English and French halfpenny Press; but I
do consider it violated if I am forbidden to witness a masterpiece full
of thought and moral import, such as Ibsen’s ‘Ghosts’ or a beautiful
play like Mæterlinck’s ‘Monna Vanna.’ This is the case in England. The
English fetter themselves with convention, and ostracise those who
revolt against the convention. You cannot smoke in a railway refreshment
room in England. You must dress for dinner. You cannot have supper after
12.30 a.m. at a restaurant. You cannot go to a theatre on Sunday. You
cannot admire anything unless it is the fashion, and once it is the
fashion you must admire it. As to equality, the whole of English life is
a struggle to belong to the layer of society immediately above your own,
and not to be suspected of belonging to that immediately beneath your
own. Hence England is the paradise of snobbery, social and intellectual.
There is a mad race to be ‘in the swim’ socially and ‘in the know’
intellectually, and to read the right books and admire the right
pictures. As to equality I will give you a concrete instance. Let two
men get drunk in London, one a rich man and the other a poor man. If
they make a disturbance and get taken up, the rich man, by taking a
little trouble, will get the matter hushed up. The poor man will not get
off. You will say that there is one law for the rich and one for the
poor in every country. But I say that here in Russia nobody cares if you
go drunk in the street, and that, whether you are rich or poor, if you
do so the same thing will happen to you; you will be taken to the
_uchastok_ and kept there till you get sober. Whereas in England they
care very much; you have to appear before a magistrate—but the rich man
will get out of this. As to fraternity, the English hedge themselves
round with every kind of social prejudice and barrier they can devise.
Their clubs are like their prisons, places where it is forbidden to
speak to your neighbour, except under special circumstances, and where
you have to wear a special costume. A Russian convict enjoys a greater
freedom of social intercourse than an English shopman. I judge from
their books. Read ‘Kipps,’ by H. G. Wells. It is a record of leaden
social tyranny.”

“What you call convention,” said the professor, “is merely the
maintenance of order. It may be exaggerated, but an exaggeration in this
sense is preferable to one in the other. You can sup here at a
restaurant all night, but a man may shoot you for not being brisk enough
in your manifestation of loyalty.”

“Many Englishmen would gladly shoot Mr. Bernard Shaw for the same
offence,” said the landlord, “but they have not the courage of their
convictions.”

“What you call freedom,” said the professor, “is precisely the opposite
of freedom. It is lawlessness. Your neighbour can kill you with
impunity. Where does your freedom come in the matter? What freedom is
there in not being allowed to read a foreign newspaper unless it is
expurgated, or in being sent to Siberia for disapproving of the methods
of Government officials?”

“The people who were sent to Siberia,” said the landlord, “were those
who wished to overturn the existing form of government, under which the
ordinary individual enjoyed peculiar liberty. And even here how mildly
the Government acted! Really remarkable agitators like Tolstoi were left
alone. The English acted more drastically, and hounded Byron and Shelley
from the country. But when it is a question of expressing their
convictions they would never throw a bomb; they cannot go further than
throwing a herring at Mr. Balfour. The fact is that the English are a
nation of shopkeepers, and they have the shopkeeper’s aversion from a
mess in the shop.”

“If that means having shopmen,” said the professor, “such as Chatham,
Fox, Burke, Gladstone, Bright, and Morley, I wish we were also a nation
of shopkeepers. If a nation’s destinies are controlled by men like
Alexeiev and Bezobrassov it does not seem to me to make it less like a
shop, only the shop is managed on dishonest principles.”

“The greatest of all English thinkers,” answered the landlord, “was a
dishonest official, Lord Bacon; her greatest soldier a general who
peculated, the Duke of Marlborough. The man who made England’s prestige
dwindle to its lowest depth was Gladstone.”

“We cannot reach a lower depth than that to which the Bureaucracy has
brought us,” said the student.

“As a remedy you want liberal demagogues,” said the landlord. “What we
want is not a change of kind, but of quality; not a Liberal Cabinet and
a Liberal autocrat, but a capable Cabinet and a capable autocrat; and,
therefore, I support the revolutionaries, in the hope that out of the
ruins and ashes of what they will destroy the phœnix may arise.”

“And we,” said the student, “can do without phœnixes, which we regard as
a doubtful blessing; on the other hand, what we want, and what we are
determined to get, are laws, not manifestoes—laws guaranteeing the
elementary rights of liberty and equality; and these we are determined
to attain, even at the sacrifice of the peculiar liberty, equality, and
fraternity which you say we enjoy; even if the ultimate result be that
the Emperor ceases to call us _Bratzi_ (little brothers) and the
theatres are closed on Sunday.”

ST. PETERSBURG, _February 4th_.

To-day I had a long conversation with X, one of the most enlightened
Liberals in the service of the Russian Government. He said that the
action of the Government in proclaiming the Manifesto of October 17th
could only be compared to the Declaration of the Rights of Man by the
French Revolution before any constitution was defined. The Manifesto had
proclaimed in Russia principles unknown in that country, and the fact
remained, although it was sometimes overlooked, that it was the
Government and not a National Assembly which had taken the momentous
step. Whatever circumstances may have provoked this step, it is none the
less true that Count Witte by taking it retained the control over the
general situation, and still retains it in spite of all appearances to
the contrary. This was a merit not recognised by his detractors, who are
now universal. Then he went on to say that the source of the trouble and
confusion now was that the Manifesto formed the programme and the basis
of a Constitution; it was not a Constitution in itself (since it had
been conferred by an Autocrat and could be taken back again); this fact
had been slow in dawning on the people, unused to abstract political
discussion, and most people, probably the majority, considered the
Manifesto to be equivalent to an established Constitution. The trouble
is, he added, that some of the most intelligent of the moderate Liberals
of the upper classes do not know what a Constitution is. If the
Manifesto had been immediately followed by a Constitution, the questions
which at the present time were giving rise to heated debate would never
have been raised. They would have been settled before they were
discussed by the public. As it was the Manifesto contained a collection
of principles which all parties sought to interpret and to exploit to
their own advantage. The reactionary party sees in the preservation of
the word “Autocrat” the key of the situation. He added that though his
party was not large, and had lost a great deal of its influence, none
the less it possessed a deep root in the Conservative element in Russia.
Count Witte, he said, is supposed, and rightly, to interpret the word
“Autocrat” historically, and to substitute for the word “Limited” that
of “Independent” (International). He then spoke of the Octobrists, the
party of the 17th of October. He said that they showed conciliatory
tendencies, which although obviously well meaning in times of
Revolution, made for weakness. They avoid the question of title and that
of the oath of the sovereign, and declare themselves satisfied with the
clear and precise act guaranteeing the oath on the part of the successor
to the throne; and they remain content with the Manifesto as far as the
actual sovereign is concerned. The Radical parties take no interest in
this question, the Social Democrats take even less, since they look to
Revolution and to Revolution only for the ultimate decision of the
destiny of their country. There are two other questions, he continued,
which up to the present have been scarcely mentioned, nor is there much
hope that the Government will have the courage to face them unaided. One
is that of the relations among the different nations of which the
Russian Empire is composed, the other is the Agrarian question. This
last question is not a constitutional or a legislative question. The
power of the autocrat, while it existed, could alone have solved it. The
autocratic power exists no longer now in fact, although its place has
not yet been taken by a definite new _régime_. He said that among the
mass of conflicting conjectures and rumours with regard to the future,
two important things were clear: (1) that the Government was determined
to retain in its hands the power to give a Constitution; (2) that it was
determined to grant a Constitution and to proceed to the elections. He
said it was impossible to say more at the present; everything depended
on the nature of the future Assembly, and whether it would be possible
for the Moderate elements to exercise any preponderating influence. Up
to now they had been widely divergent and discordant among themselves.
If their efforts to gain a solid majority were successful, the greatest
danger would be over; if not, the Revolution was in its infancy, for if
the Moderates were to fail, the two extreme parties would be left face
to face, as different from one another as possible, yet both at one for
different reasons in their uncompromising opposition to all temperate
and constitutional reform. He said he made no allusion to the various
risings and repressions, because these events exercised, in reality,
only an indirect influence on the progress of the ideas he had
mentioned, sometimes by facilitating their spread, and sometimes by
impeding it. It had neither produced nor stopped them. There were two
parallel and different currents of events now in progress in Russia. One
forced itself on the attention, the other was exceedingly difficult to
trace. For that reason it was futile to discuss exclusively the progress
of revolutionary feeling and the ultimate success of repressive
measures.

It is interesting to look back on this conversation now in December,
1906, since it shows the illusions which Russian Liberals cherished a
year ago.

ST. PETERSBURG, _February 11th_.

I have put into the form of a dialogue some of the many conflicting
views I have lately heard expressed with regard to Count Witte.

“We have no right,” said the Moderate Liberal, “to doubt the good faith
of the Government at the present moment as regards the promise of the
Constitution and the elections for the Duma. Until the Government proves
to us that it does not intend to keep its word we are bound to believe
it.”

“It has never kept its word in the past,” said the student, “and
everything which it is doing at present tends to show that it has no
intention of doing so now.”

“Count Witte knows what he is doing,” said the man of business. “When
our grandchildren read of this in books they will wonder why we were so
blind and so obstinate, just as we now wonder at the blindness which
prevailed when the opposition to Bismarck was absolutely universal.”

“I share the scepticism of our young friend,” said the Zemstvo
representative, “but for different reasons. I do not share your
confidence in Count Witte. The basis of that confidence is in your case
the fact that Count Witte is a man of business. I maintain that a man of
business can only exert a real and lasting influence in the affairs of a
nation in times of revolution, convulsion, and evolution, or what you
please to call it, on one condition, namely, that of recognising and
taking into account the force of ideas and of moral laws. You smile, and
say that this is nonsense. But I say this, not because I am an idealist,
for I am not one, but because I have got an open mind, which seeks the
causes of certain phenomena and finds them in the existence of certain
facts. One of these facts is this: that you cannot set at naught certain
moral laws; you cannot trample on certain ideas without their rebounding
on to you with invincible force. You men of business deny the existence
of these moral laws, and scoff at the force of ideas; but it is on
practice and facts that I base my argument, and not on theory. That is
why men like Cromwell succeed, and why men like Metternich fail.”

“And Napoleon?” asked the man of business.

“Napoleon slighted one of these laws by invading Spain, and this was the
cause of his overthrow, although Napoleon was a soldier, which is an
incalculable advantage.”

“And Bismarck?” asked the man of business.

“Bismarck,” said the Zemstvo representative, “is a case in point. He
followed and used ideas. He worked for the great national ideal, the
ideal of united Germany. He incarnated the national idea. What is Count
Witte’s ideal? A national loan or the expansion of the Russo-Chinese
Bank? It is not enough to say that the revolution is merely the work of
enemies financed by foreigners, and then _Schwamm darüber_, as the
Germans say. Whoever supports it, it is there; and if it were merely an
artificial forced product, surely you, as a man of business, must admit
that it would have died a natural death by this time. You say that the
people can only be actuated by their own interests. I say that the
people are often actuated by something which has nothing to do with
their interests. History affords me countless examples which prove I am
right. When people have been killed, tortured, and burnt for an idea, it
is absurd to say they were interested. Interested in what? In the
possible rewards of a future life? But people have been tortured and
burnt not only for their faith but for their opinions: Giordano Bruno,
De Witt, and many others. There are some, too, whose outward enthusiasm
has been lined with scepticism, and who have died for a cause in which
they did not even believe. And when a person now throws a bomb at a
governor it may explain the fact to say he is mad, but it does not
explain the fact to say that he is bought, because he knows quite well
he is going to certain death. To deny this is a sign, in my opinion, of
a limited intelligence. ‘Il n’a pas l’intelligence assez large,’ a
French writer once said, ‘pour concevoir que l’intérêt n’est pas seul à
mener le monde, qu’il se mêle souvent et qu’il cède parfois à des
passions plus fortes, voire à des passions nobles.’ This is why I
disbelieve in Count Witte. I believe he suffers from this limitation,
the limitation from which Bismarck did not suffer. In times of peace it
would not signify; in times such as these it makes all the difference.
Have you read a book by H. G. Wells called the ‘Food of the Gods’? I do
not know what the English think of Wells; but we, some of us at least,
and the French, take him seriously as a thinker. Well, in this book
there is an argument between a Prime Minister and the representative of
the giant race. All the Prime Minister’s arguments are excellent, but
they are fundamentally wrong, because his action is morally wrong. This
story applies to the situation here. A race of giants has grown up.
Count Witte, with conviction and eloquence, repeats again and again that
their action is impossible, that he must be helped, that the existence
of mankind is at stake. But all the time he is denying to this race the
right of existence. And they know they have the right to live. He is
denying the moral law and saying that his opponents are only hirelings,
or madmen. His arguments are specious, but the giants are there, and
they will not listen; he sends troops and police against them; they
answer by bombarding the country with their giant food, which causes
gigantic growth to spring up wherever it falls. In our case this food
takes the shape of ideas and the rights of man.”

“Yes, but since he has promised a Constitution,” said the Moderate
Liberal, “you cannot prove that he does not mean to keep his promise.”

“I feel certain he will give some kind of a Constitution,” answered the
Zemstvo representative. “I feel equally certain that it will mean
nothing at all. I am not convinced for a moment that he believes in
Constitutional Government for Russia. And if he disbelieves in it, why
should he give it?”

“But what makes you think he disbelieves in it?” asked the Liberal.

“His present action,” remarked the student.

“His past actions,” said the Zemstvo representative. “Why did he not
support Prince Mirsky’s reforms? And apart from this, has he not said in
the past, again and again, that a strong autocracy is the only
Government suitable for Russia?”

“He is quite right there,” said the man of business.

“Then you agree with me,” said the Zemstvo representative, “in thinking
that he does not believe in a Constitution. I think myself that a
capable and wise autocracy may very well be the ideal Government. But
the position now is that the autocracy has for a long time past shown
itself to be neither capable nor wise, and therefore the enormous
majority of thinking Russians are quite determined to do away with it.
‘Absolute Princes,’ Dr. Johnson said, ‘seldom do any harm, but those who
are governed by them are governed by chance.’ We are tired of being
governed by chance. We may be unreasonable, but we are determined to try
something else.”

“We will see,” said the man of business, “assuming what you say to be
true, who is the stronger, you and your giant food of ideas and moral
laws, or Count Witte and his practical sense. We have the bayonets on
our side.”

“The bayonets of a defeated army,” said the Zemstvo representative. “We
will see how long you will be able to sit upon them.”

“I do not pretend to be a prophet or a philosopher,” answered the man of
business, “but I note certain facts; one of these is this, that ever
since October I have been told by your friends that Count Witte’s
position is untenable, and his resignation a question of hours. It has
not come about yet. He still retains the direction of affairs. Should we
meet in five years’ time I will discuss Count Witte’s policy with you.
At present we are too near to it.”

“And it too far from us,” said the student.

Towards the end of this conversation, a man who belonged to no party
came into the room and overheard the talk. When they had finished
talking he said: “As to Witte, the question seems to me to lie in this:
is he acting consciously and with foresight or is he merely making the
best of chance? We are all praying for a genius to appear in Russia.
But, when geniuses do come, nobody ever recognises the fact until it is
too late and they are dead. If Witte is acting consciously then he is a
genius indeed. If he has foreseen all along what would happen, and, in a
few years’ time, is President of the Federation of Russian United
States, having decentralised what he has so capably centralised, then I
think he will be one of the greatest men who have ever lived; but, if he
is merely acting as the occasion presents itself, I do not rate him
higher than a Boulanger with a head for figures.”

“In any case,” said the Zemstvo representative, “he will provide
glorious food for discussion for the future historian, and even at
present the world would be a duller and greyer place without this
enigmatical chameleon.”

ST. PETERSBURG, _February 17th_.

I have frequently heard the opinion expressed that the Russian
Revolution can inspire nothing but disgust owing to the fact that it has
produced no great men, and to its lack of big, stirring epic events, in
contradistinction to the French Revolution, which was so rich in all
these things. It is, therefore, interesting to note what impression the
events of the French Revolution produced on impartial foreign
contemporary opinion.

We derive one definite impression of the French Revolution by reading
Carlyle, or Mignet, or Taine; but the foreign contemporaries who were
not themselves mingled in the tragic events received a very different
and far more fragmentary series of impressions. Horace Walpole, in his
letters, gives us interesting glimpses into the contemporary opinion of
the period. At the time of the storming of the Bastille he wrote as
follows: “If the Bastille conquers, still is it impossible, considering
the general spirit in the country, and the numerous fortified places in
France, but some may be seized by the _dissidents_, and whole provinces
be torn from the Crown? On the other hand, if the King prevails, what
heavy despotism will the _États_, by their want of temper and
moderation, have drawn on their country! They might have obtained many
capital points, and removed great oppression. No French monarch will
ever summon _États_ again if this moment has been thrown away.” It is
interesting to note how doubtful he considers the success of the
revolutionaries to be. Again, he adds in the same letter: “One hears of
no genius on either side, nor do symptoms of any appear. There will,
perhaps; such times and tempests bring forth, at least bring out, great
men. I do not take the Duke of Orleans or Mirabeau to be built “du bois
dont on les fait”; no, nor M. Necker. He may be a great traitor if he
made the confusion designedly; but it is a woful evasion if the promised
financier slips into a black politician.” A criticism similar to that
passed on Necker I have myself heard applied to Count Witte on several
occasions in St. Petersburg.

In July, 1790, he again returns to the charge: “Franklin and Washington
were great men. None have appeared yet in France, and Necker has only
returned to make a wretched figure.... Why, then, does he stay?” This is
the question which the _Russ_, the anti-Governmental newspaper, is
asking every day in like terms about Count Witte. In August, 1790, he
says about the French: “They have settled nothing like a Constitution;
on the contrary, they seem to protract everything but violence as much
as they can in order to keep their louis a day.” This might be applied
not without appositeness to certain of the Bureaucrats here. In
September, 1791, Horace Walpole is even more pessimistic. He thinks that
twenty thousand men could march from one end of France to the other. But
he apprehends the possibility of enthusiasm turning to courage against a
foreign enemy. What he disbelieves in is a set of “military noble lads,
pedantic academicians, curates of villages, and country advocates amidst
the utmost confusion and altercation amongst themselves” composing a
system of government that would set four and twenty millions of people
free. “This, too,” he adds, “without one great man amongst them. If they
had had, as Mirabeau seemed to promise to be—but as we know that he was,
too, a consummate villain, there would soon have been an end of their
vision of liberty. And so there will be still, unless, after a civil
war, they split into small kingdoms or commonwealths. A little nation
may be free.... Millions cannot be so; because, the greater the number
of men that are one people, the more vices, the more abuses there are,
that will either require or furnish pretexts for restraints.” It is
plain from the above quotations that whatever contemporary foreign
writers thought of the French Revolution there was one thing which they
did not think, and that was that the prominent actors in it were big
men; or that the whole movement was anything but disgusting and futile.

Later, in 1793, Horace Walpole’s horror and disgust, as was natural,
knew no bounds. He thinks, moreover, that the proceedings of the French
Republicans had wounded the cause of liberty and shaken it for
centuries. Now the popular atmosphere of legend that has grown up round
the Revolution takes as its keynote a phrase of Victor Hugo’s: “Les
hommes de 1793 étaient des géants.” In Russia we have not got so far as
1793. We are still at the beginning of 1789, and it is quite possible
that the future Carlyle who writes the history of this period will say
the men of 1905 were giants. The Duma will give opportunities for
popular tribunes, and apart from and in contradistinction to great
orators or tribunes, it may be doubted whether revolutions, while they
are going on, ever produce great men. The great men come afterwards.

But when people point to the seemingly effectual repression that is now
taking place here, and ask how it is possible for the Revolution to
continue, they forget that there is a difference—a small but vastly
important difference—between the present state of affairs and the period
of the late M. Plehve’s _régime_. The difference consists in the fact
that before the general strike and the October Manifesto, before even
the taking of Port Arthur, Prince Mirsky opened a little window in the
tight-closed room of Russian politics by relaxing the stringent Press
regulations and letting loose public opinion. The light came in like a
flood, and nothing can now drive it out. Repression when public opinion
was crushed was a very different thing from repression when every case
of it is reported in detail in the newspapers, as now happens. For
people can say what they like about the unreality or the non-existence
of the liberty of the Press; one has only to buy the Radical newspapers
to be convinced that if the Press is not free it is certainly more
explicit and more unrestrained in its violence than the Press of any
other European country, and some of the comic satirical newspapers might
have Marat for editor.

Somebody once said that he would have given anything in the world to
have half an hour’s private interview with the late Lord Beaconsfield
with a pistol, and to obtain from him under the threat of death an exact
and complete account of his views and convictions. It would be
interesting to perform a similar experiment on Count Witte; whatever the
result of it might be, I doubt if there would be found a trace of the
placid optimism which is sometimes attributed to him. Count Witte may be
attacked for many things; he cannot be accused of a lack of
clear-sightedness: not, that is, if he be judged by the utterances which
he is known to have made before the outbreak of the war, or by those
which he made publicly before entering office, and while the war was
still going on. Mirabeau was, in the opinion of Horace Walpole, a
ruffian; he was certainly distrusted by both parties, but we know now,
though the fact escaped the notice of his contemporaries, that he gauged
the forces at work and the probable trend of events with surprising
accuracy. We now consider Mirabeau to have been something like a great
man. Count Witte has perhaps inspired among all parties a greater
distrust than that which was the lot of Mirabeau; but in times such as
these clear-sightedness, self-confidence, and capacity for hard work are
precious qualities indeed. Nobody denies the possession of these
qualities to Count Witte. It is not, therefore, impossible that the
future historian may place him in the same niche as Mirabeau in the
Pantheon of the world. This, as Horace Walpole says, is speculation, not
prophecy. And I revert, or rather arrive, at these conclusions, that a
lull in events does not necessarily imply their final cessation; that so
far in Russia revolutionary matters have succeeded one another, if
anything, with greater rapidity than they did in France, and that what
seems to be the unmistakable dawn of revolution to the historian may
very well appear to be a false dawn to the contemporary observer; and
that, whatever happens, nothing can ever shut the little window which
Prince Mirsky opened.

CHAPTER XI
DOSTOIEVSKY’S ANNIVERSARY

ST. PETERSBURG, _February 24th_.

They are celebrating the 25th anniversary of the death of Dostoievski,
and this fact has brought back to my mind, with great vividness, a
conversation I had with the officers of the battery at Jen-tzen-tung
last September, and which I have already noted in my diary.

We were sitting in the ante-room of the small Chinese house which formed
our quarters. This ante-room, which had paper windows and no doors, a
floor of mud, and a table composed of boards laid upon two small
tressels, formed our dining-room. We had just finished dinner, and were
drinking tea out of pewter cups. Across the courtyard from the part of
the dwelling where the Chinese herded together, we could hear the
monotonous song of a Chinaman or a Mongol singing over and over to
himself the same strophe, which rose by the intervals of a scale more
subtle than ours and sank again to die away in the vibrations of one
prolonged note, to the accompaniment of a single-stringed instrument.

The conversation had languished. Somebody was absorbed in a patience, we
were talking of books and novels in a vague, desultory fashion, when
suddenly Hliebnikov, a young Cossack officer, said: “Who is the greatest
writer in the world?” Vague answers were made as to the comparative
merits of Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, and Molière, but Hliebnikov
impatiently waived all this talk aside. Then turning to me he said: “He
knows; there is one writer greater than all of them, and that is
Dostoievski.”

“Dostoievski!” said the doctor. “Dostoievski’s work is like a clinical
laboratory or a dissecting-room. There is no sore spot in the human soul
into which he does not poke his dirty finger. His characters are either
mad or abnormal. His books are those of a madman, and can only be
appreciated by people who are half mad themselves.”

The young Cossack officer did not bother to discuss the question. He
went out into the night in disgust. We continued the argument for a
short time. “There is not a single character,” said the doctor, “in all
Dostoievski’s books who is normal.” The doctor was a cultivated man, and
seeing that we differed we agreed to differ, and we talked of other
things, but I was left wondering why Hliebnikov was so convinced that
Dostoievski was the greatest of all writers, and why he knew I should
agree with him. I have been thinking this over ever since, and in a
sense I do agree with Hliebnikov. I think that Dostoievski is the
greatest writer that has ever lived, if by a great writer is meant a man
whose work, message, or whatever you like to call it, can do the
greatest good, can afford the greatest consolation to poor humanity. If
we mean by the greatest writer the greatest artist, the most powerful
magician, who can bid us soar like Shelley or Schubert into the seventh
heaven of melody, or submerge us like Wagner beneath heavy seas until we
drown with pleasure, or touch and set all the fibres of our associations
and our æsthetic appreciation vibrating with incommunicable rapture by
the magic of wonderful phrases like Virgil or Keats, or strike into our
very heart with a divine sword like Sappho, Catullus, Heine, or Burns,
or ravish us by the blend of pathos and nobility of purpose with
faultless diction like Leopardi, Gray, and Racine, or bid us understand
and feel the whole burden of mankind in a thin thread of notes like
Beethoven or in a few simple words like Goethe, or evoke for us the
whole pageant of life like Shakespeare to the sound of Renaissance
flutes, or all Heaven and Hell like Dante, by “thoughts that breathe and
words that burn”?

If we are thinking of all these miraculous achievements when we say a
great writer or the greatest writer, then we must not name Dostoievski.
Dostoievski is not of these; in his own province, that of the novelist,
he is as a mere workman, a mere craftsman, one of the worst, inferior to
any French or English ephemeral writer of the day you like to mention;
but, on the other hand, if we mean by a great writer a man who has given
to mankind an inestimable boon, a priceless gift, a consolation, a help
to life, which nothing can equal or replace, then Dostoievski is a great
writer, and perhaps the greatest writer that has ever lived. I mean that
if the Holy Scriptures were destroyed and no trace were left of them in
the world, the books where mankind, bereft of its Divine and inestimable
treasure, would find the nearest approach to the supreme message of
comfort would be the books of Dostoievski.

Dostoievski is not an artist; his stories and his books are put together
and shaped anyhow. The surroundings and the circumstances in which he
places his characters are fantastic and impossible to the verge of
absurdity. The characters themselves are also often impossible and
fantastic to the verge of absurdity; yet they are vivid in a way no
other characters are vivid, and alive, not only so that we perceive and
recognise their outward appearance, but so that we know the innermost
corners of their souls. His characters, it is said, are abnormal. One of
his principal figures is a murderer who kills an old woman from ambition
to be like Napoleon, and put himself above the law; another is a victim
to epileptic fits. But the fact should be borne in mind that absolutely
normal people, like absolutely happy nations, have no history; that
since the whole of humanity is suffering and groaning beneath the same
burden of life, the people who in literature are the most important to
mankind are not the most normal, but those who are made of the most
complex machinery and of the most receptive wax, and who are thus able
to receive and to record the deepest and most varied impressions. And in
the same way as Job and David are more important to humanity than George
I. or Louis-Philippe, so are Hamlet and Falstaff more important than Tom
Jones and Mr. Bultitude. And the reason of this is not because Hamlet
and Falstaff are abnormal—although compared with Tom Jones they are
abnormal—but because they are human: more profoundly human, and more
widely human. Hamlet has been read, played, and understood by succeeding
generations in various countries and tongues, in innumerable different
and contradictory fashions; but in each country, at each period, and in
each tongue, he has been understood by his readers or his audience,
according to their lights, because in him they have seen a reflection of
themselves, because in themselves they have found an echo of Hamlet. The
fact that audiences, actors, readers, and commentators have all
interpreted Hamlet in utterly contradictory ways testifies not merely to
the profound humanity of the character but to its multiplicity and
manysidedness. Every human being recognises in himself something of
Hamlet and something of Falstaff; but every human being does not
necessarily recognise in himself something of Tom Jones or Mr.
Bultitude. At least what in these characters resembles him is so like
himself that he cannot notice the likeness; it consists in the broad
elementary facts of being a human being; but when he hears Hamlet or
Falstaff philosophising or making jokes on the riddle of life he is
suddenly made conscious that he has gone through the same process
himself in the same way.

So it is with Dostoievski. Dostoievski’s characters are mostly abnormal,
but it is in their very abnormality that we recognise their profound and
poignant humanity and a thousand human traits that we ourselves share.
And in showing us humanity at its acutest, at its intensest pitch of
suffering, at the soul’s lowest depth of degradation, or highest summit
of aspiration, he makes us feel his comprehension, pity, and love for
everything that is in us, so that we feel that there is nothing which we
could think or experience; no sensation, no hope, no ambition, no
despair, no disappointment, no regret, no greatness, no meanness that he
would not understand; no wound, no sore for which he would not have just
the very balm and medicine which we need. Pity and love are the chief
elements of the work of Dostoievski—pity such as King Lear felt on the
heath; and just as the terrible circumstances in which King Lear raves
and wanders make his pity all the greater and the more poignant in its
pathos, so do the fantastic, nightmarish circumstances in which
Dostoievski’s characters live make their humanness more poignant, their
love more lovable, their pity more piteous.

A great writer should see “life steadily and see life whole.”
Dostoievski does not see the whole of life steadily, like Tolstoi, for
instance, but he sees the soul of man whole, and perhaps he sees more
deeply into it than any other writer has done. He shrinks from nothing.
He sees the “soul of goodness in things evil”: not exclusively the evil,
like Zola; nor does he evade the evil like many of our writers. He sees
and pities it. And this is why his work is great. He writes about the
saddest things that can happen; the most melancholy, the most hopeless,
the most terrible things in the world; but his books do not leave us
with a feeling of despair; on the contrary, his own “sweet
reasonableness,” the pity and love with which they are filled are like
balm. We are left with a belief in some great inscrutable goodness, and
his books act upon us as once his conversation did on a fellow prisoner
whom he met on the way to Siberia. The man was on the verge of suicide;
but after Dostoievski had talked to him for an hour—we may be sure there
was no sermonising in that talk—he felt able to go on, to live even with
perpetual penal servitude before him. To some people, Dostoievski’s
books act in just this way, and it is, therefore, not odd that they
think him the greatest of all writers.

CHAPTER XII
THE POLITICAL PARTIES

MOSCOW, _March 11th_.

The political parties which are now crystallising themselves are the
result of the Liberal movement which began in the twenties, and
proceeded steadily until the beginning of the war in 1904, when the
Liberal leaders resolved, for patriotic reasons, to mark time and wait.
This cessation of hostilities did not last long, and the disasters
caused by the war produced so universal a feeling of discontent that the
liberation movement was automatically set in motion once more.

On the 19th of June, 1905, a deputation of the United Zemstva, at the
head of which was Prince S. N. Troubetzkoi, was received by the Emperor.
Prince Troubetzkoi, in a historic speech, expressed with the utmost
frankness and directness the imperative need of sweeping reform and of
the introduction of national representation. The coalition of the
Zemstva formed the first political Russian party, but it was not until
after the great strike, and the granting of the Manifesto in October,
that parties of different shades came into existence and took definite
shape. During the month which followed the Manifesto the process of
crystallisation of parties began, and is still continuing, and they can
now roughly be divided into three categories—Right, Centre, and Left,
the Right being the extreme Conservatives, the Centre the Constitutional
Monarchists, and the Left consisting of two wings, the Constitutional
Democrats on the right and the Social Democrats and Social
Revolutionaries on the left. Of these the most important is the party of
the Constitutional Democrats, nicknamed the “Cadets.” “Cadets” means
“K.D.,” the word “Constitutional” being spelt with a “K” in Russian, and
as the letter “K” in the Russian alphabet has the same sound as it has
in French, the result is a word which sounds exactly like the French
word “Cadet.” Similarly, Social Revolutionaries are nicknamed “S.R.’s”
and the Social Democrats “S.D.’s.”

In order to understand the origin of the Constitutional Democrats one
must understand the part played by the Zemstva. In 1876 a group of
County Councillors, or Zemstvoists, under the leadership of M.
Petrunkevitch devoted themselves to the task of introducing reforms in
the economical condition of Russia. In 1894 their representatives,
headed by M. Rodichev, were summarily sent about their business, after
putting forward a few moderate demands. In 1902 these men formed with
others a “League of Liberation.” M. Schipov tried to unite these various
“Zemstva” in a common organisation, and some of the members of the
Liberation League, while co-operating with them, started a separate
organisation called the Zemstvo Constitutionalists. Among the members of
this group were names which are well known in Russia, such as Prince
Dolgoroukov, MM. Stachovitch, Kokoshkin, and Lvov. But these
“Zemstvoists” formed only a small group; what they needed, in order to
represent thinking Russia, was to be united with the professional
classes. In November, 1904, the various professions began to group
themselves together in political bodies. Various political unions were
formed, such as those of the engineers, doctors, lawyers, and
schoolmasters. Then Professor Milioukov, one of the leading pioneers of
the Liberal movement, whose name is well known in Europe and America,
united all professional unions into a great “Union of Unions,” which
represented the great mass of educated Russia. Before the great strike
in October, 1905, he created, together with the best of his colleagues,
a new political party, which united the mass of professional opinion
with the small group of Zemstvo leaders. He had recognised the fact that
the Zemstvoists were the only men who had any political experience, and
that they could do nothing without enrolling the professional class.
Therefore it is owing to Professor Milioukov that the experienced
Zemstvo leaders in October had the whole rank and file of the middle
class behind them, and the Constitutional Democrats, as they are at
present, represent practically the whole “Intelligenzia,” or
professional class, of Russia. This party is the only one which is
seriously and practically organised. This being so, it is the most
important of the political parties.

Those of the Right have not enough followers to give them importance,
and those of the Left have announced their intention of boycotting the
elections. These various parties are now preparing for the elections.

We are experiencing now the suspense of an _entr’acte_ before the
curtain rises once more on the next act of the revolutionary drama. This
will probably occur when the Duma meets in April. People of all parties
seem to be agreed as to one thing, that the present state of things
cannot last. There is at present a reaction against reaction. After the
disorders here in December many people were driven to the Right; now the
reactionary conduct of the Government has driven them back to the Left.

So many people have been arrested lately that there is no longer room
for them in prison. An influential political leader said to me yesterday
that a proof of the incompetence of the police was that they had not
foreseen the armed rising in December, whereas every one else had
foreseen it. “And now,” he said, “they have been, so to speak, let loose
on the paths of repression; old papers and old cases, sometimes of forty
years ago, are raked up, and people are arrested for no reason except
that the old machine, which is broken and thoroughly out of order, has
been set working with renewed energy.” The following conversation is
related to me—if it is not true (and I am convinced that it is not true)
it is typical—as having taken place between a Minister and his
subordinate:—

The Subordinate: There are so many people in prison that there is no
possibility of getting in another man. The prisons are packed, yet
arrests are still being made. What are we to do? Where are these people
to be put?

The Minister: We must let some of the prisoners out.

The Subordinate: How many?

The Minister: Say five thousand.

The Subordinate: Why five thousand?

The Minister: A nice even number.

The Subordinate: But how? Which? How shall we choose them?

The Minister: Let out any five thousand. What does it matter to them?
Any five thousand will be as pleased as any other to be let out.

It is interesting to note that last November the Minister of the
Interior was reported to have said that if he could be given a free hand
to arrest twenty thousand “intellectuals,” he would stop the revolution.
The twenty thousand have been arrested, but the revolution has not been
stopped.

So far, in spite of the many manifestoes, no guarantee of a Constitution
has been granted. The Emperor has, it is true, declared that he will
fulfil the promises made in his declaration of the 17th of October, and
it is true that if these promises were fulfilled, the result would be
Constitutional Government. But at the same time he declared that his
absolute power remained intact. At first sight this appears to be a
contradiction in terms; but, as the Power which granted the Manifesto of
October 17th was autocratic and unlimited, and as it made no mention of
the future limiting of itself, it is now, as a matter of fact, not
proceeding contrarily to any of its promises. The liberties which were
promised may only have been meant to be temporary. They could be
withdrawn at any moment, since the Emperor’s autocratic power remained.
The Manifesto might only have been a sign of goodwill of the Emperor
towards his people. It promised certain things, but gave no guarantee as
to the fulfilment of these promises. The whole of Russia, it is true,
understood it otherwise. The whole of Russia understood when this
Manifesto was published that a Constitution had been promised, and that
autocracy was in future to be limited. What Count Witte understood by
it, it is difficult to say. Whether he foresaw or not that this
Manifesto by its vagueness would one day mean much less than it did
then, or whether he only realised this at the same time that he realised
that the Conservative element was much stronger than it was thought to
be, it is impossible to determine. The fact remains that the Emperor has
not withdrawn anything; he has merely not done what he never said he
would do, namely, voluntarily abdicate his autocratic power.

The Conservatives are opposed to any such proceeding; not in the same
way as the extreme reactionaries, some of whom relegated the portrait of
the Emperor to the scullery on the day of the Manifesto from sheer
Conservative principle, but because they say that if the autocratic
power is destroyed the peasant population will be convulsed, and the
danger will be immense. To this Liberals—all liberal-minded men, not
revolutionaries—reply that this supposed danger is a delusion of the
Conservatives, who have unconsciously invented the fact to support their
theory and have not based their theory on the fact; that many peasants
clearly understand and recognise that there is to be a constitutional
_régime_ in Russia; that if this danger does exist, the risk incurred by
it must be taken; that in any case it is the lesser of two evils, less
dangerous than the maintenance of the autocracy.

Count Witte’s opponents on the Liberal side say that the course of
events up to this moment has been deliberately brought about by Count
Witte; that he disbelieved and disbelieves in Constitutional Government
for Russia; that he provoked disorder in order to crush the
revolutionary element; that the Moderate parties played into his hands
by not meeting him with a united front; that, Duma or no Duma, he
intends everything to remain as before and the power to be in his hands.
What his supporters say I do not know, because I have never seen one in
the flesh, but I have seen many people who say that what has happened so
far has been brought about with infinite skill and knowledge of the
elements with which he had to deal. Further, they add that Count Witte
has no principles and no convictions; that he has always accommodated
himself to the situation of the moment, and worked in harmony with the
men of the moment, whatever they were; that he has no belief in the
force or the stability of any movement in Russia; that he trusts the
Russian character to simmer down after it has violently fizzed; that he
intends to outstay the fizzing period; that he has a great advantage in
the attitude of the Moderate parties, who, although they do not trust
him, play into his hands by disagreeing on small points and not meeting
him with clear and definite opposition. They add, however, that he has
miscalculated and wrongly gauged the situation this time, because the
simmering down period will only be temporary and the fizzing will be
renewed again with increasing violence, until either the cork flies into
space or the bottle is burst. The cork is autocracy, the bottle Russia,
and the mineral water the revolution. The corkscrew was the promise of a
Constitution with which the cork was partially loosened, only to be
screwed down again by Count Witte’s powerful hand.

Among all the parties the most logical seem to be the Extreme
Conservatives and the Extreme Radicals. The Extreme Conservatives have
said all along that the talk of a Constitution was nonsensical, and the
Manifesto of October 17th a great betrayal; that the only result of it
has been disorder, riot, and bloodshed. They are firmly based on a
principle. The Extreme Radicals are equally firmly based on a principle,
namely, that the autocratic _régime_ must be done away with at all
costs, and that until it is swept away and a Constitution based on
universal suffrage takes its place there is no hope for Russia.
Therefore the danger that the Moderate parties may eventually be
submerged and the two extremes be left face to face, still exists. As a
great quantity of the Radicals are in prison they are for the time being
less perceptible; but this era of repression cannot last, and it has
already created a reaction against itself. But then the question arises,
what will happen when it stops? What will happen when the valve on which
the police have been sitting is released?

The influential political leader with whom I dined last night, and who
is one of the leading members of the party of October 17th, said that
there was not a man in Russia who believed in Witte, that Witte was a
man who had no convictions. I asked why he himself and other Zemstvo
leaders had refused to take part in the administration directly after
the Manifesto had been issued, when posts in the Cabinet were offered to
them. He said their terms had been that the Cabinet should be
exclusively formed of Liberal leaders; but they did not choose to serve
in company with a man like Durnovo, with whom he would refuse to shake
hands.

He added that it would not have bettered their position in the country
with regard to the coming Duma, which he was convinced would be Liberal.
Talking of the Constitutional Democrats he said they were really
republicans but did not dare own it.

CHAPTER XIII
IN THE COUNTRY

SOSNOFKA, GOVERNMENT OF TAMBOV,
_March 25th_.

When one has seen a thing which had hitherto been vaguely familiar
suddenly illuminated by a flood of light, making it real, living, and
vivid, it is difficult to recall one’s old state of mind before the
inrush of the illuminating flood; and still more difficult to discuss
that thing with people who have not had the opportunity of illumination.
The experience is similar to that which a child feels when, after having
worshipped a certain writer of novels or tales, and wondered why he was
not acknowledged by the whole world to be the greatest author that has
ever been, he grows up, and by reading other books, sees the old
favourite in a new light, the light of fresh horizons opened by great
masterpieces; in this new light the old favourite seems to be a sorry
enough impostor, his golden glamour has faded to tinsel. The grown-up
child will now with difficulty try to discover what was the cause and
secret of his old infatuation, and every now and then he will receive a
shock on hearing some fellow grown-up person talk of the former idol in
the same terms as he would have talked of him when a child, the reason
being that this second person has never got farther; has never reached
the illuminating light of new horizons. So it is with many things; and
so it is in my case with Russia. I find it extremely difficult to recall
exactly what I thought Russia was before I had been there; and I find
Russia difficult to describe to those who have never been there. There
is so much when one has been there that becomes so soon a matter of
course that it no longer strikes one, but which to the newcomer is
probably striking.

The first time I came to Russia I travelled straight to the small
village where I am now staying. What did I imagine Russia to be like?
All I can think of now is that there was a big blank in my mind. I had
read translations of Russian books, but they had left no definite
picture or landscape in my mind; I had read some books about Russia and
got from them very definite pictures of a fantastic country, which
proved to be curiously unlike Russia in every respect. A country where
feudal castles, Pevenseys and Hurstmonceuxs, loomed in a kind of
Rhine-land covered with snow, inhabited by mute, inglorious Bismarcks,
and Princesses who carried about dynamite in their cigarette-cases and
wore bombs in their tiaras; Princesses who owed much of their being to
Ouida, and some of it to Sardou.

Then everything in these books was so gloriously managed; everybody was
so efficient, so powerful; the Bismarcks so Machiavellian and so mighty;
the Princesses so _splendide mendaces_. The background was also
gorgeous, barbaric, crowded with Tartars and Circassians, blazing with
scimitars, pennons, armour, and sequins, like a scene in a Drury Lane
pantomime; and every now and then a fugitive household would gallop in
the snow through a primæval forest, throwing their children to the
wolves, so as to escape being devoured themselves. This, I think, was
the impression of Russia which I derived before I went there from
reading French and English fiction about Russia, from Jules Verne’s
“Michel Strogoff,” and from memories of many melodramas. Then came the
impressions received from reading Russian books, which were again
totally different from this melodramatic atmosphere.

From Russian novels I derived a clear idea of certain types of men who
drank tea out of a samovar and drove forty versts in a vehicle called a
_Tarantass_. I made the acquaintance of all kinds of people, who were as
real to me as living acquaintances; of Natascha and Levine, and Pierre
and Anna Karenine, and Basaroff, and Dolly, and many others. But I never
saw their setting clearly, I never realised their background, and I used
to see them move before a French or German background. Then I saw the
real thing, and it was utterly and totally different from my
imaginations and my expectations. But now when I try to give the
slightest sketch of what the country is really like the old difficulty
presents itself; the difficulty which arises from talking of a thing of
which one has a clear idea to people who have a vague and probably false
idea of the reality. The first thing one can safely say is this:
eliminate all notions of castles, Rhine country, feudal keeps, and stone
houses in general. Think of an endless plain, a sheet of dazzling snow
in winter, an ocean of golden corn in summer, a tract of brown earth in
autumn, and now in the earliest days of spring an expanse of white
melting snow, with great patches of brown earth and sometimes green
grass appearing at intervals, and further patches of half-melted snow of
a steely-grey colour, sometimes blue as they catch the reflection of the
dazzling sky in the sunlight. In the distance on one side the plain
stretches to infinity, on the other you may see the delicate shapes of a
brown, leafless wood, the outlines soft in the haze. If I had to
describe Russia in three words I should say a plain, a windmill, and a
church. The church is made of wood, and is built in Byzantine style,
with a small cupola and a minaret. It is painted red and white, or white
and pale-green. Sometimes the cupola is gilt.

The plain is dotted with villages, and one village is very like another.
They consist generally of two rows of houses, forming what does duty for
a street, but the word street would be as misleading as possible in this
case. It would be more exact to say an exceedingly broad expanse of
earth: dusty in summer, and in spring and autumn a swamp of deep soaking
black mud. The houses, at irregular intervals, sometimes huddled close
together, sometimes with wide gaps between them, succeed each other (the
gaps probably caused by the fact that the houses which were there have
been burnt). They are made of logs, thatched with straw; sometimes (but
rarely) they are made of bricks and roofed with iron. As a rule they
look as if they had been built by Robinson Crusoe. The road is strewn
with straw and rich in abundance of every kind of mess. Every now and
then there is a well of the primitive kind which we see on the banks of
the Nile, and which one imagines to be of the same pattern as those from
which the people in the Old Testament drew their water. The roads are
generally peopled with peasants driving at a leisurely walk in winter in
big wooden sledges and in summer in big wooden carts. Often the cart is
going on by itself with somebody in the extreme distance every now and
then grunting at the horse. A plain, a village, a church, every now and
then a wood of birch-trees, every now and then a stream, a weir, and a
broken-down lock. A great deal of dirt, a great deal of moisture. An
overwhelming feeling of space and leisureliness, a sense that nothing
you could say or do could possibly hurry anybody or anything, or make
the lazy, creaking wheels of life go faster—that is, I think, the
picture which arises first in my mind when I think of the Russian
country.

Then as to the people. With regard to these, there is one fact of
capital importance which must be borne in mind. The people if you know
the language and if you don’t are two separate things. The first time I
went to Russia I did not know a word of the language, and, though
certain facts were obvious with regard to the people, I found it a
vastly different thing when I could talk to them myself. So different
that I am persuaded that those who wish to study this country and do not
know the language are wasting their time, and might with greater profit
study the suburbs of London or the Isle of Man. And here again a fresh
difficulty arises. All the amusing things one hears said in this
country, all that is characteristic and smells of the Russian land, all
that is peculiarly Russian, is like everything which is peculiarly
anything, peculiarly English, Irish, Italian, or Turkish,
untranslatable, and loses all its savour and point in translation. This
is especially true with regard to the Russian language, which is rich in
peculiar phrases and locutions, diminutives, and terms which range over
a whole scale of delicate shades of endearment and familiarity, such as
“little pigeon,” “little father,” &c., and these phrases translated into
any other language lose all their meaning. However, the main impression
I received when I first came to Russia, and the impression which I
received from the Russian soldiers with whom I mingled in Manchuria in
the war, the impression which is now the strongest with regard to them
is that of _humaneness_. Those who read in the newspapers of acts of
brutality and ferocity, of houses set on fire and pillaged, of huge
massacres of Jews, of ruthless executions and arbitrary imprisonments,
will rub their eyes perhaps and think that I must be insane. It is true,
nevertheless. A country which is in a state of revolution is no more in
its normal condition than a man when he is intoxicated. If a man is
soaked in alcohol and then murders his wife and children and sets his
house on fire, it does not necessarily prove that he is not a humane
member of society. He may be as gentle as a dormouse and as timid as a
hare by nature. His excitement and demented behaviour are merely
artificial. It seems to me now that the whole of Russia at this moment
is like an intoxicated man; a man inebriated after starvation, and
passing from fits of frenzy to sullen stupor. The truth of this has been
illustrated by things which have lately occurred in the country.
Peasants who have looted the spirit stores and destroyed every house
within reach have repented with tears on the next day.

The peasants have an infinite capacity for pity and remorse, and
therefore the more violent their outbreaks of fury the more bitter is
their remorse. A peasant has been known to worry himself almost to
death, as if he had committed a terrible crime, because he had smoked a
cigarette before receiving the Blessed Sacrament. If they can feel acute
remorse for such things, much more acute will it be if they set houses
on fire or commit similar outrages. If you talk to a peasant for two
minutes you will notice that he has a fervent belief in a great, good,
and inscrutable Providence. He never accuses man of the calamities to
which flesh is heir. When the railway strike was at its height, and we
were held up at a small side station, the train attendant repeated all
day long that God had sent us a severe trial, which He had. Yesterday I
had a talk with a man who had returned from the war; he had been a
soldier and a surgeon’s assistant, and had received the Cross of St.
George for rescuing a wounded officer under fire. I asked him if he had
been wounded. He said, “No, my clothes were not even touched; men all
around me were wounded. This was the ordinance of God. God had pity on
the orphan’s tears. It was all prearranged thus that I was to come home.
So it was to be.” I also had tea with a stonemason yesterday who said to
me, “I and my whole family have prayed for you in your absence because
these are times of trouble, and we did not know what bitter cup you
might not have to drink.” Then he gave me three new-laid eggs with which
to eat his very good health.

_March 29th._

To-day I went out riding through the leafless woods and I saw one of the
most beautiful sights I have ever seen, a sight peculiarly
characteristic of Russian landscape. We passed a small river that up to
now has been frozen, but the thaw has come and with it the floods of
spring. The whole valley as seen from the higher slopes of the woods was
a sheet of shining water. Beyond it in the distance was a line of
dark-brown woods. The water was grey, with gleaming layers in it
reflecting the white clouds and the blue sky; and on it the bare trees
seemed to float and rise like delicate ghosts, casting clearly defined
brown reflections. The whole place had a look of magic and enchantment
about it, as if out of the elements of the winter, out of the snow and
the ice and the leafless boughs, the spring had devised and evoked a
silvery pageant to celebrate its resurrection.

MOSCOW, _April 6th_.

I have spent twelve instructive days in the country; instructive,
because I was able to obtain some first-hand glimpses into the state of
the country, into the actual frame of mind of the peasants; and the
peasants are the obscure and hidden factor which will ultimately decide
the fate of Russian political life. It is difficult to get at the
peasants; it is exceedingly difficult to get them to speak their mind.
You can do so by travelling with them in a third-class carriage, because
then they seem to regard one as a fleeting shadow of no significance
which will soon vanish into space. However, I saw peasants; I heard them
discuss the land question and the manner in which they proposed to buy
their landlords’ property. I also had some interesting talks with a man
who had lived among the peasants for years. From him and from others I
gathered that their attitude at present was chiefly one of expectation.
They are waiting to see how things turn out. They were continually
asking my chief informant whether anything would come of the “levelling”
(_Ravnienie_); this is, it appears, what they call the revolutionary
movement. It is extremely significant that they look upon this as a
process of equalisation. The land question in Russia is hopelessly
complicated; it is about ten times as complicated as the land question
in Ireland, and of the same nature. I had glimpses of this complexity.
The village where I was staying was divided into four “societies”; each
of these societies was willing to purchase so much land, but when the
matter was definitely settled with regard to one society two
representatives of two-thirds of that society appeared and stated that
they were “Old Souls” (_i.e._, they had since the abolition of serfage a
separate arrangement), and wished to purchase the lands separately in
order to avoid its partition; upon which the representatives of the
whole society said that this was impossible, and that they were the
majority. The “Old Souls” retorted finally that a general meeting should
be held, and then it would be seen that the majority was in favour of
them. They were in a minority; and in spite of the speciousness of their
arguments it was difficult to see how the majority, whose interests were
contrary to those of the “Old Souls,” could be persuaded to support
them. This is only one instance out of many.

Another element of complication is that the peasants who can earn their
living by working on the landlords’ land are naturally greatly averse
from anything like a complete sale of it, and are alarmed by the
possibility of such an idea. Also there is a class of peasants who work
in factories, and therefore are only interested in the land inasmuch as
profit can be derived from it while it belongs to the landlord. Again,
there are others who are without land, who need land, and who are too
poor to buy it. If all the land were given to them as a present
to-morrow the result in the long run would be deplorable, because the
quality of the land—once you eliminate the landlord and his more
advanced methods—would gradually deteriorate and poverty would merely be
spread over a larger area. One fact is obvious: that many of the
peasants have not got enough land, and to them land is now being sold by
a great number of landlords. To settle the matter further, a radical
scheme of agrarian reform is necessary; many such schemes are being
elaborated at this moment, but those which have seen the light up to the
present have so far proved a source of universal disagreement. The fact
which lies at the root of the matter is of course that if the land
question is to be solved the peasant must be educated to adopt fresher
methods of agriculture than those which were employed in the Garden of
Eden; methods which were doubtless excellent until the fall of man
rendered the cultivation of the soil a matter of painful duty, instead
of pleasant recreation.

I asked my friend who had lived among the peasants and studied them for
years what they thought of things in general. He said that in this
village they had never been inclined to loot (looting can always arise
from the gathering together of six drunken men), that they are perfectly
conscious of what is happening (my friend is one of the most impartial
and fair-minded men alive); they are distrustful and they say little;
but they _know_. As we were talking of these things I mentioned the fact
that a statement I had made in print about the peasants in this village
and in Russia generally reading Milton’s “Paradise Lost” had been
received with interest in England and in some quarters with incredulity.
It was in this very village and from the same friend, who had been a
teacher there for more than twenty years, that I first heard of this. It
was afterwards confirmed by my own experience.

“Who denies it?” he asked. “Russians or Englishmen?” “Englishmen,” I
answered. “But why?” he said. “I have only read it myself once long ago,
but I should have thought that it was obvious that such a work would be
likely to make a strong impression.”

I explained that at first sight it appeared to Englishmen incredible
that Russian peasants, who were known to be so backward in many things,
should have taken a fancy to a work which was considered as a touchstone
of rare literary taste in England. I alluded to the difficulties of the
classicism of the style—the scholarly quality of the verse.

“But is it written in verse?” he asked. And when I explained to him that
“Paradise Lost” was as literary a work as the Æneid he perfectly
understood the incredulity of the English public. As a matter of fact,
it is not at all difficult to understand and even to explain why the
Russian peasant likes “Paradise Lost.” It is popular in exactly the same
way as Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress” has always been popular in England.
Was it not Dr. Johnson who said that Bunyan’s work was great because,
while it appealed to the most refined critical palate, it was understood
and enjoyed by the simplest of men, by babes and sucklings? This remark
applies to the case of “Paradise Lost” and the Russian peasant. The fact
therefore is not surprising, as would be, for instance, the admiration
of Tommy Atkins for a translation of Lucretius. It is no more and no
less surprising than the popularity of Bunyan or of any epic story or
fairy tale. When people laugh and say that these tastes are the
inventions of essayists they forget that the epics of the world were the
supply resulting from the demand caused by the deeply-rooted desire of
human nature for stories—long stories of heroic deeds in verse; the
further you go back the more plainly this demand and supply is manifest.
Therefore in Russia among the peasants, a great many of whom cannot
read, the desire for epics is strong at this moment. And those who can
read prefer an epic tale to a modern novel.

Besides this, “Paradise Lost” appeals to the peasants because it is not
only epic, full of fantasy and episode, but also because it is
religious, and, like children, they prefer a story to be true. In
countries where few people read or write, memory flourishes, and in
Russian villages there are regular tellers of fairy tales (_skashi_) who
hand down from generation to generation fairy tales of incredible length
in prose and in verse.

But to return to my friend the schoolmaster. I asked him if “Paradise
Lost” was still popular in the village. “Yes,” he answered, “they come
and ask me for it every year. Unfortunately,” he added, “I may not have
it in the school library as it is not on the list of books which are
allowed by the censor. It is not forbidden; but it is not on the
official list of books for school use.” Then he said that after all his
experience the taste of the peasants in literature baffled him. “They
will not read modern stories,” he said. “When I ask them why they like
‘Paradise Lost’ they point to their heart and say, ‘It is near to the
heart; it speaks; you read and a sweetness comes to you.’ Gogol they do
not like. On the other hand they ask for a strange book of adventures,
about a Count or a Baron.” “Baron Munchausen?” I suggested. “No,” he
said, “a Count.” “Not Monte Cristo?” I asked. “Yes,” he said, “that is
it. And what baffles me more than all is that they like Dostoievski’s
‘Letters from a Dead House.’” (Dostoievski’s record of his life in
prison in Siberia.) Their taste does not to me personally seem to be so
baffling. As for Dostoievski’s book, I am certain they recognise its
great truth, and they feel the sweetness and simplicity of the writer’s
character, and this “speaks” to them also. As for “Monte Cristo,” is not
the beginning of it epical? It was a mistake, he said, to suppose the
peasants were unimaginative. Sometimes this was manifested in a curious
manner. There was a peasant who was well known as a great drunkard. In
one of his fits of drink he imagined that he had sold his wife to the
“Tzar of Turkey,” and that at midnight her head must be cut off. As the
hour drew near he wept bitterly, said goodbye to his wife, and fetching
an axe said with much lamentation that this terrible deed had to be done
because he had promised her life to the “Tzar of Turkey.” The neighbours
eventually interfered and stopped the execution.

When one is searching for curious types it generally happens that you
find one under your very nose. This was my case the other day. There is
in the village another school which has lately been built for the
factory children by the Government. I strolled into it and was received
by a young schoolmaster with long black hair who was conducting, in the
same room, three separate classes of children of different ages, to
which he was respectively and simultaneously teaching reading, writing,
and arithmetic (_i.e._, reading to one class, writing to the second, and
arithmetic to the third). In the interval between two lessons he took me
into his room and talked. His room was next to the schoolroom. It was
like the school, made of oak boards, neither papered nor carpeted. There
was no furniture in his sitting-room, except a tiny table and a stool,
and in a further room no furniture at all except a violin on the floor.
The Government had given the wood with which to build the school, he
said; and when it arrived the peasants whose children were to go to the
school had begun to saw and build, and then had refused to go on with
the work. However, it was eventually built. “Who supports it?” I asked.
“Well,” he answered, “at present the Government have no funds for
schools, and the peasants refuse to pay for it, so I have to support it
myself. The expenses are not great.” His salary consists of £36 a year,
out of which he supplies the school-books and paper, pens, &c. He seemed
to like his work and to take a great interest in the peasants. “The
factory peasants are far more developed than the ordinary peasants,” he
said. “Some of them take an interest in astronomy. But the peasants are
dark people, difficult to get to know, and infinitely cunning.” “Do you
play the violin?” I asked, pointing to the violin case. “Yes,” he
answered, “but I don’t know how I play.” I have never seen so poignant a
symbol of loneliness and the absence of the comforts of life as this
young schoolmaster in his bare wooden room. He seemed, however,
perfectly cheerful, and said that his present situation was a great
improvement on the last one, which had been a mastership in a school
near Morshansk, where he slept in the same room as forty other people,
and where in winter the atmosphere was so thick at night that they had
to open the door. To this the bare room with the violin on the floor
seemed indeed preferable.

CHAPTER XIV
THE ELECTIONS

MOSCOW, _March 19th_.

“Public affairs,” Dr. Johnson once said, “vex no man.” And when Boswell
objected that he had seen Dr. Johnson vexed on this account the sage
replied thus: “Sir, I have never slept an hour less, nor ate an ounce
less meat. I would have knocked the factious dogs on the head, to be
sure; but I was not vexed.” This seems to me to be an exact definition
of the attitude of the Russian public towards politics at this moment.
They are not vexed, but they are anxious to knock the factious dogs on
the head. The trouble is that each party considers the other parties to
be the factious dogs, and the Government considers nearly all the
parties to be factious dogs; and all parties without exception (Radical,
Extreme, and Conservative) consider the Government to be a factious dog.
I will describe briefly the present position of principal parties and
their more important subdivisions.

The Right (the monarchical party and the Alliance of Russian People) is
for the Throne and the Altar and against all compromise. They consider
constitutional promises to have been exacted by the terrorism of
factious dogs.

In the Centre there are, slightly towards the Right, the party of Law
and Order, the party of Commerce and Industry, and slightly veering
towards the Left the Alliance of October 17th. At this moment the two
branches I have mentioned first (Law and Order and Commerce and
Industry) have veered from the Right towards the Left; they say that the
Government is their common enemy. However, the main fact with regard to
them is that these three branches of the Centre, of which the Alliance
of October 17th is far the most important, are all constitutional and
all moderate. There are further subdivisions in the Centre about which
we need not trouble ourselves.

These three parties are united in desiring the preservation of the
Monarchy on a thoroughly constitutional basis and that of the Unity of
the Empire. They differ on various other questions. The Alliance of
October 17th is in favour of universal suffrage.

The Constitutional Democrats, or Cadets, are in favour of universal
suffrage, local autonomy for Poland (which they wish placed in the same
position as Finland), and one Chamber. They say nothing of the Monarchy.
They are a very strong and active party, and their leaders are notable
men, such as Professor Milioukov, MM. Struve, Rodichev, and
Petrunkevitch, nearly all of whom are brilliant orators. The Government
has been so active in repressive measures against this party that it is
difficult to foresee how strongly they will be represented in the Duma.
The Moderate parties accuse them of promising more than they can give
and of saying less than they mean; in fact, of being Federalists and
Socialists in disguise, and not having the honesty and the courage to
admit the fact for fear of arousing hostility among the peasants. On the
Left of the Left are the Socialists, the Social Democrats, and the
Social Revolutionaries.

The elections are taking place now. I tried during the whole of
yesterday to grasp thoroughly the working of the franchise law. I failed
to grasp it. I asked one Russian how many degrees there were in the
suffrage. He said four. I asked another; he said three. I asked a third;
he said two.

However, what has happened in twenty-five Governments as far as the
peasants are concerned is this: the peasants have elected delegates for
their districts. Each district elects a delegate. The delegate elects an
elector and the elector elects the member. That is one part of the
process. Three degrees. The result of these elections was that out of
222 districts in 23 Ouiezds 99 districts elected supporters of the
Government, and 123 more or less Progressive candidates. Yesterday the
small landed proprietors elected their representatives in the Government
of Moscow; out of 100 candidates returned 20 Constitutional Democrats
only were elected. Yesterday also, in St. Petersburg, elections were
held among the working men of the factories. This led to nothing, since
the working men boycotted the proceedings.

The first peasant who was chosen as a delegate for his district in the
Government of Moscow was arrested on the 13th inst. It happened like
this: The peasants met to elect a representative. Amongst them there was
one man who, without having any definite political convictions, was able
to make a fair speech. He was unanimously elected. The police, who were
present, confronted with this apparently unforeseen contingency (that
some one would be elected), and in doubt as to what to do, arrested him.
He protested, saying that he had been unanimously chosen as the people’s
delegate. “Oh!” said the police, “you are a _kreekòon_, are you? The
Circular of the Minister of the Interior tells us to arrest all
_kreekòons_; to prison you go.” A _kreekòon_ means a person who is
turbulent, who cries out, objects, or makes any kind of disturbance. So
arrested he was. The peasants, left without a candidate, thought that
this time they would elect some one who could not possibly be accused of
being a _kreekòon_, so they chose a very old man over ninety years of
age. This man, although admirably fitted by the suavity of his demeanour
to fulfil the necessary conditions, could neither read nor write, nor
even hold a pen so as to scratch his mark. So he was disqualified. In
his place another octogenarian, who still had strength enough left in
his palsied fingers to scratch a mark on paper, was chosen. In other
districts the peasants, hearing of this proceeding, elected the village
elder or the policeman so as to avoid possible trouble. This, however,
is against the rules, so they had to fall back on octogenarians. In
mills and factories the employers encourage this plan so as to avoid
friction with the authorities. It is perhaps fair to add that the
elections are probably not in all cases so farcical as they are made out
to be. But in one case some workmen who wished to boycott the elections
and were frightened into voting elected a man who was deaf and dumb.

The general feeling prevails that the Duma, whatever the result of the
elections may be, will be a profoundly unsatisfactory machine. The
Socialists look upon the situation with hope. They say that the Duma
will either be red, in which case it will be dissolved by the
Government; or black, in which case it will be destroyed by the
Revolutionaries; or moderate, in which case it will be composed of such
conflicting elements that the confusion which will ensue will render its
existence impossible. Most of the Moderate Central Parties are veering
towards an alliance with those of the Left, owing to the intense
exasperation which is felt against the Government. At the meetings held
by these Central Moderate Parties violently anti-Governmental speeches
are made, and greeted with thunderous applause.

MOSCOW, _April 8th_.

The elections have taken place here to-day; and, as in St. Petersburg
last week, the struggle lies between the Constitutional Democrats or
Cadets and the union of the three Moderate parties (the Alliance of
October 17th, the Party of Commerce and Industry, and the Party of
Rightful Order), which calls itself the “Block.”

In Moscow the conservative element, represented by the Party of Commerce
and Industry, is said to be strong; there are strong conservative
elements in the town; on the other hand the Cadets are exceedingly
hopeful. The result of the elections will be known to-morrow night. When
the results of the elections were made public in St. Petersburg the
attitude of the Right and of the October Party was curious. They said
with one voice that it was not fair, that many of the electors had not
received their voting cards, and that the elections should be cancelled.
It was pointed out that possibly many of the Cadets had not received
their voting cards either, but that they had taken the trouble to go and
fetch them. Every possible explanation was given for the victory of the
Cadets save the one that the majority of voters were in sympathy with
their programme, and had therefore elected them. The situation recalled
the state of feeling after the last General Election in England. During
the weeks that preceded the elections the Cadets complained, and in many
cases with good grounds, that their efforts in canvassing and electoral
agitation generally were being seriously impeded by the police. Their
one cry has been all along: “We are not revolutionaries. We are a
political party. And we are being treated as revolutionaries.” (The
Social Revolutionaries are not taking part in the elections at all.)
Somebody lately pointed out to me that if, in spite of all the measures
taken against the Cadets, they still succeed in obtaining a majority,
the result of the repressive measures will have been to secure a
representative Duma. He meant that whether the Cadets are right or
wrong, it is evident that they are infinitely more energetic and more
capable of action than their adversaries, so that if they obtain a
moderate success we shall be justified in concluding that, had they been
in no way impeded, they would have obtained an overwhelming success; in
which case the Duma would have been representative exclusively of the
more energetic opinion in Russia, and not, therefore, fairly
representative of the whole opinion.

To understand their success one has only to read their programme. It is
a little book which costs three kopecks, _i.e._, two-thirds of a
halfpenny. It lays down shortly, precisely, and in perspicuous language
everything which those people desire who wish for a radical change of
_régime_ in Russia: (1) The equality of citizens before the law. (2)
Freedom of religion. (3) Freedom of speech and of the Press. (4) The
right to hold public meetings. (5) The right to form clubs and unions.
(6) The right of petition. (7) The inviolability of the individual and
his domicile (_habeas corpus_). (8) Abolition of illegal punishments and
extraordinary Courts. (9) Freedom of the citizen to leave his country
and abolition of the passport system. (10) The incorporation of the
above-mentioned rights in the fundamental laws of the country. These ten
clauses, which could be written on less than half a sheet of notepaper
(I have just copied them from the official programme), form the basis of
their creed. Besides these there are further and more detailed articles
concerning the political organisation of the State; among which there is
one which lays down that the representatives of the people should be
elected by universal, equal, direct suffrage carried out by ballot,
without distinction of religion, nationality, or sex. (There is a
qualifying clause as to whether the introduction of woman’s suffrage
shall be immediate or not, which is not very clear.) The Cadets
themselves say that their future behaviour depends entirely on the
Government, and that they have no wish to go further to the Left unless
the Government push them thither.

I went to look at the voting in one of the districts this morning. It
took place on the third floor of a minor place of entertainment. A small
crowd was collected outside, getting thick around the door; at the door
and on the staircase were canvassers of the two camps, those of the
Cadets being mostly students. Upstairs a long string of people were
waiting to vote in alphabetical order, and in a further room, of which I
could get but a glimpse, I saw a green baize table and some respectable
people sitting at it. The whole proceeding was orderly in the extreme.
There has been nothing in the town to-day to tell the casual tourist
that elections are going on, although the interest in them is keen.

It is Palm Sunday, and therefore the customary fair is being held on the
Red Place in front of the Kremlin, and as it has been a lovely day the
crowd of strollers was immense. This fair is one of the most amusing
sights to be seen in Russia. Two lines of booths occupy the space which
stretches opposite the walls of the Kremlin. At the booths you can buy
almost anything: birds, tortoises, goldfish, grass snakes, linoleum,
carpets, toys, knives, musical instruments, books, music, cakes, lace,
ikons, Easter eggs, carved woodwork, &c. There are besides these a
number of semi-official stalls where kwass is sold to drink, and a great
quantity of itinerant vendors sell balloons, things that squeak, penny
whistles, trumpets, and chenille monkeys. The trade in goldfish was
brisk (people often buying one goldfish in a small tumbler), but that in
a special kind of whetstone which cut glass and sharpened knives and
cost twenty kopecks was briskest of all. The crowd round this stall, at
which the vendor gave a continual exhibition of the practical excellence
of his wares by cutting up bits of glass, was dense, and he sold any
quantity of them. At the bookstall the selection was varied in the
extreme; I bought two cheap copies of “Paradise Lost” in Russian with
wonderful illustrations, but there were also back numbers of _Punch_ to
be got, some fragments of the _Cornhill Magazine_, and the Irish State
Papers from 1584 to 1588. One man was selling silvered Caucasian whips
which, he said, had just missed being silver. One man sold little
sailors made of chenille, which, he said, represented the crew of the
_Potemkin_ without the captain. There was one fascinating booth called
an American bazaar where everything cost five kopecks, and where you
could buy almost anything.

I did not, to my regret, find at the bookstall a magazine which, I am
told, has recently been published for children—children in the nursery,
not schoolboys. It forms part of a series of publications resembling the
“Bibliothèque Rose” in France. This magazine, I am told, leads off with
an article on Herzen (the famous writer on Socialistic questions), and
then continues with a cartoon of a man in chains in a dungeon, having
dreamt of freedom, and waking to find he is bound; another cartoon
follows representing a gallows, or some other such cheerful symbol, and
it ends with an article on America, in which it is explained that the
children in the United States have initiated and are carrying on a
movement and agitation in favour of the extension of suffrage to the
nursery. This is what I think is called a sign of the times.

Certainly Russia is quite different from all other countries, and by
saying it is the most Western of Oriental nations you get no nearer an
explanation of its characteristics than by saying it is the most
Oriental of Western nations. You live here, walk about, talk, and forget
that you are in a place which is quite unique, until some small sight or
episode or phrase brings home the fact to you, and you say “This is
Russia,” as Vernon Lee in her exquisite book on “The Spirit of Rome”
exclaims, “This is Rome,” when driving towards Monte Maggiore she hears
the sound of the harmonium, and the school-children’s hymn issuing out
of a piece of broken ruin covered with fennel. Such a moment has just
occurred to me to-night, when driving home through the empty streets at
11 p.m. I passed a church as the clock struck, and I heard a voice
speaking loud quite close to me; I turned round and saw a policeman
standing on the pavement, having faced about towards the church. He was
saying his prayers in a loud singsong; his whole body was swaying as he
repeatedly crossed himself; in his arms he carried a twig of budding
willow, which is the symbol of the palm-branches of to-day’s festival;
these branches yesterday and to-day have been sold and carried about all
over Russia. Palm Sunday here is called the Feast of the
Willow-branches. When I saw this policeman saying his prayers I
experienced that peculiar twinge of recognition which made me think:
“This is Russia.”

CHAPTER XV
EASTER AT MOSCOW—THE FOREIGN LOAN

MOSCOW, _April 15th_.

I have spent Easter in various cities—in Rome, Florence, Athens, and
Hildesheim—and, although in each of these places the feast has its own
peculiar aspect, yet by far the most impressive and the most interesting
celebration of the Easter festival I have ever witnessed is that of
Moscow. This is not to be wondered at, for Easter, as is well known, is
the most important feast of the year in Russia, the season of festivity
and holiday-making in a greater degree than Christmas or New Year’s Day.
Secondly, Easter, which is kept with equal solemnity all over Russia, is
especially interesting in Moscow, because Moscow is the stronghold of
old traditions, and the city of churches. Even more than Cologne, it is

“Die Stadt die viele hundert
Kapellen und Kirchen hat.”

There is a church almost in every street, and the Kremlin is a citadel
of cathedrals. During Holy Week, towards the end of which the evidences
of the fasting season grow more and more obvious by the closing of
restaurants and the impossibility of buying any wine and spirits, there
are, of course, services every day. During the first three days of Holy
Week there is a curious ceremony to be seen every two years in the
Kremlin. That is the preparation of the chrism or holy oil. While it is
slowly stirred and churned in great cauldrons, filling the room with hot
fragrance, a deacon reads the Gospel without ceasing (he is relieved at
intervals by others), and this lasts day and night for three days. On
Maundy Thursday it is removed in silver vessels to the Cathedral. The
supply has to last the whole of Russia for two years. I went to the
morning service in the Cathedral of the Assumption on Maundy Thursday.
“It’s long, but it’s very, very beautiful.” The church is crowded to
suffocation. Everybody is standing up, as there would be no room to
kneel. The church is lit with countless small wax tapers. The priests
are clothed in white and silver. The singing of the noble plain chant
without any accompaniment ebbs and flows in perfectly disciplined
harmonies; the bass voices are unequalled in the world. Every class of
the population is represented in the church. There are no seats, no
pews, no precedence or privilege. There is a smell of incense and a
still stronger smell of poor people, without which, some one said, a
church is not a church. On Good Friday there is the service of the Holy
Shroud, and besides this a later service in which the Gospel is read out
in fourteen different languages, and finally a service beginning at one
o’clock in the morning and ending at four, which commemorates the Burial
of Our Lord. How the priests endure the strain of these many and
exceedingly long services is a thing to be wondered at; for the fast,
which is strictly kept during all this period, precludes butter, eggs,
and milk, in addition to all the more solid forms of nourishment, and
the services are about six times as long as those of the Roman Catholic
or other Churches.

The most solemn service of the year takes place at midnight on Saturday.
From eight until ten o’clock the town, which during the day had been
crowded with people buying provisions and presents and Easter eggs,
seems to be asleep and dead. At about ten people begin to stream towards
the Kremlin. At eleven o’clock there is already a dense crowd, many of
the people holding lighted tapers, waiting outside in the square,
between the Cathedral of the Assumption and that of Ivan Veliki. A
little before twelve the cathedrals and palaces on the Kremlin are all
lighted up with ribbons of various coloured lights. Twelve o’clock
strikes, and then the bell of Ivan Veliki begins to boom: a beautiful
full-voiced, immense volume of sound—a sound which Clara Schumann said
was the most beautiful she had ever heard. Then it is answered by other
bells, and a little later all the bells of all the churches in Moscow
are ringing together. Then from the cathedral comes the procession; the
singers first in crimson and gold; the bearers of the gilt banners; then
the Metropolitan, also in stiff robes of crimson and gold, and after him
the officials in their uniforms. They walk round the cathedral to look
for the Body of Our Lord, and return to the cathedral to tell the news
that He is risen. Then the guns go off, rockets are fired, and
illuminations are seen across the river, lighting up the distant cupola
of the great Church of the Saviour with a cloud of fire.

The crowd begins to disperse and to pour into the various churches. I
went to the Manège—an enormous riding school, in which the Ekaterinoslav
Regiment has its church. Half the building looked like a fair. Long
tables, twinkling with hundreds of wax tapers, were loaded with the
three articles of food which are eaten at Easter; a huge cake called
koulich; a kind of sweet cream made of curds and eggs, cream, and sugar,
called Pascha (Easter); and Easter eggs, dipped and dyed in many
colours. They are there waiting to be blessed. The church itself was a
tiny little recess on one side of the building. There the priests were
officiating and down below in the centre of the building the whole
regiment was drawn up. There are two services—the service which begins
at midnight, and which lasts about half an hour, and Mass, which follows
immediately after it, lasting till about three in the morning. At the
end of the first service, when “Christ is risen” is sung, the priest
kisses the congregation three times and then the congregation kiss each
other, one person saying “Christ is risen” and the other answering “He
is risen, indeed.” The colonel kisses the sergeant; the sergeant kisses
all the men one after another. While this ceremony was proceeding I left
and went to the Church of the Saviour, where the first service was not
yet over. Here the crowd was so dense that it was almost impossible to
get into the church, although it is immense. The singing in this church
is ineffable, and it is worth while coming to Moscow simply for the sake
of hearing it. I waited until the end of the first service and then I
was borne by the crowd to one of the narrow entrances and hurled through
the doorway outside. The crowd was not rough, they were not jostling one
another, but with cheerful carelessness people dived into it as you dive
into a scrimmage at football, and propelled the unresisting herd towards
the entrance; the result being, of course, that a mass of people got
wedged into the doorway and the process of getting out took infinitely
longer than it need have done, and had there been a panic nothing could
have prevented one’s being crushed to death. After this I went to a
friend’s house to break the fast and eat koulich, Pascha, and Easter
eggs, and finally returned home when the dawn was faintly shining on the
dark waters of the Moscow river, whence the ice disappeared only last
week.

This morning people come to bring one Easter greetings and to give one
Easter eggs and to receive gifts. I was writing in my sitting-room, and
I heard a faint mutter in the next room, a small voice murmuring,
“Gospodi, Gospodi” (“Lord, Lord”). I went to see who it was and found it
was the policeman, sighing for his tip, not wishing to disturb, but at
the same time anxious to indicate his presence. He brought me a crimson
egg. Then came the doorkeeper and the cook. And the policeman must, I
think, have been pleased with his tip, because policemen have been
coming ever since, and there are not more than two who belong to my
street.

In the afternoon I went to a hospital for wounded soldiers to see them
keep Easter, which they did by playing blind man’s buff to the sound of
a flute played by one poor man who is crippled for life. One of the
soldiers gave me as an Easter gift a poem, which I will translate
literally as it is a curious human document. It is called “Past and
Present.” This one is “Present”:—

I lived the quarter of a century
Without knowing happy days;
My life went quickly as a cart
Drawn by swift horses.
I never knew the tenderness of parents
Which God gives to all;
For fifteen years I lived in a shop
Busied in heaping up riches for a rich man.
I was in my twentieth year,
When I was taken as a recruit;
I thought that the end had come
To my sorrowful sufferings,
But no! and here misfortune awaited me;
I was destined to serve in that country,
Where I had to fight like a lion with the foe,
For the honour of Russia, for my dear country.
I shall for a long time not forget
That hour, and that date of the 17th,[2]
In which by the River Liao-he
I remained forever without my legs.
Now I live contented with all
Where good food and drink are given,
But I would rather be a free bird
And see the dear home where I was born.

Footnote 2:

August 17th, Battle of Liaoyang.

This is the sequel:

“PAST”

I will tell you, brothers,
How I spent my youth;
I heaped up silver,
I did not know the sight of copper;
I was merry, young and nice;
I loved lovely maidens;
I lived in clover, lived in freedom,
Like a young “barine.”
I slept on straw,
Just like a little pig.
I had a very big house
Where I could rest.
It was a mouldy barn,
There where the women beat the flax.
Every day I bathed
In spring water;
I used for a towel
My scanty leg-cloth.
In the beer-shops, too,
I used to like to go,
To show how proudly
I knew how to drink “vodka.”
Now at the age of twenty-six
This liberty no longer is for me.
I remember my mouldy roof,
And I shed a bitter tear.
When I lived at home I was contented,
I experienced no bitterness in service.
I have learnt to know something,
Fate has brought me to Moscow;
I live in a house in fright and grief,
Every day and every hour,
And when I think of liberty,
My sight is screwed with weeping.
That is how I lived from my youth;
That is what freedom means.
I drank “vodka” in freedom,
Afterwards I have only to weep.
Such am I, young Vanionsia,
This fellow whom you now see
Was once a splendid merry-maker,
Named Romodin.

These two poems, seemingly so contradictory, are the sincere expression
of the situation of the man, who is now a cripple in the hospital. He
gives both sides of each situation—that of freedom and that of living in
a hospital.

On Saturday afternoon I went to one of the permanent fairs or markets in
the town, where there are a great quantity of booths. Everything is sold
here, and here the people buy their clothes. They are now buying their
summer yachting caps. One man offered me a stolen gold watch for a small
sum. Another begged me to buy him a pair of cheap boots. I did so; upon
which he said: “Now that you have made half a man of me, make a whole
man of me by buying me a jacket.” I refused, however, to make a whole
man of him.

_April 16th._

To-day I went out to luncheon with some friends in the “Intelligenzia.”
We were a large party, and one of the guests was an officer who had been
to the war. Towards the end of luncheon, when everybody was convivial,
healths were drunk, and one young man, who proclaimed very loudly that
he was a social revolutionary, drank to the health of the Republic. I
made great friends with the social revolutionary during luncheon. When
this health was drunk I was extremely alarmed as to what the officer
might do. But the officer turned out to be this man’s brother. The
officer himself made a speech which was, I think, the most brilliant
example of compromise I have ever heard; for he expressed his full
sympathy with the Liberal movement in Russia, including its
representatives in the extreme parties, and at the same time he
expressed his unalterable loyalty to his Sovereign.

After luncheon the social revolutionary, who had sworn eternal
friendship to me, was told that I had relations in London who managed a
bank. So he came up to me and said: “If _you_ give our Government one
penny in the way of a loan I shall shoot you dead.”

After that we danced for the rest of the afternoon. The social
revolutionary every now and then inveighed against loans and expressed
his hope that the Government would be bankrupt.

_April 17th._

I was looking out of the window this morning and saw the policeman who
watches over my house, and often helps with the luggage, apparently
arrest and walk off with a workman. I ran out of the house and said—

“Are you taking that man to the police station?”

“God be with him, no,” said the policeman. “Why should I arrest him? Do
you want him arrested? He is ‘having taken drink,’ and I am taking him
to a friend’s house, where he can rest.”

The policeman had thought I was complaining because he was not going to
be arrested. This incident amused me, as being typical of the
good-nature of a class of people who are represented as savage tyrants.

ST. PETERSBURG, _April 22nd_.

This afternoon, wishing to talk over the topics of the day and the
political outlook, I went to see a friend of mine, a certain Dimitri
Nikolaievitch A——. Dimitri Nikolaievitch was a failure. He had started
life with smiling prospects and the promise of a bright future, but he
wasted his youth and his fortune in dissipation, and after spending some
years in the Government service as an official he retired and embarked
upon a journalistic venture; but, since he was entirely devoid of
ambition, hopelessly unpractical, and fundamentally uncompetitive he
failed, and was soon forced to abandon an enterprise which left him
burdened with debts. He now earns a scanty income by giving lessons in
Russian to foreigners. His whole literary production is confined to one
or two suggestive literary and historical pamphlets long since out of
print. I found him at home in his room, which is on the sixth floor of a
large barrack in a remote quarter of the town. The landing on which he
lives swarms with inhabitants, and a whole bevy of tailors were busily
at work in the room opposite to his. His room is small, and scantily
furnished with a chair, a table, a low bed, a few frameless photographs
stuck on the wall, a mandoline, a guitar, and a _babalaika_. The room is
also inhabited by a bullfinch, a green lizard, and a fox terrier.
Dimitri Nikolaievitch himself looks younger than he is; he is rather
fat, with fair, unkempt hair, very light blue eyes lighting up a
wrinkled and rather puffy and unshaved face; his jacket is stained and
lacking in buttons.

“I know why you have come,” he said to me as I entered the room; “you
have got to write an article and you want copy.” “Exactly,” I answered.
“Why do you come to me? Why don’t you interview the flower of our
officialdom or some of our future Robespierres and Dantons?” he asked.
“You know as well as I do why I come to you for ideas,” I said; “with
all those people the wish is father to the thought. You have long ago
ceased to wish about political matters, and so your point of view is
quite unbiassed, besides which——” “I know,” he interrupted; “you needn’t
go on, but before we talk of what is happening I want to tell you that I
have finished my historical work.” “What work?” I asked. “I think I told
you,” he said, “that I contemplated—now that forbidden thoughts are
allowed an unwonted freedom—writing a short history of the reign of the
Emperor Nicholas II. I have begun and finished it. It took me ten
minutes. I thought it was going to take longer, but last night I
happened to open the Old Testament, and I found that the history of the
reign of Nicholas II. had already been written in the First Book of
Kings more concisely than I had intended writing it. Listen, I will read
it to you.” He took a Bible from the table and read: “‘And Rehoboam went
to Shechem: for all Israel were come to Shechem to make him King. And it
came to pass when Jeroboam, the son of Nebat, who was yet in Egypt,
heard of it ... that they sent and called him. And Jeroboam and all the
congregation of Israel came, and spake unto Rehoboam, saying, Thy father
made our yoke grievous: now therefore make thou the grievous service of
thy father, and his heavy yoke which he put upon us, lighter, and we
will serve thee. And he said unto them, Depart yet for three days, then
come again to me. And the people departed. And King Rehoboam consulted
with the old men, that stood before Solomon his father while he yet
lived, and said, How do ye advise that I may answer this people? And
they spake unto him, saying, If thou wilt be a servant unto this people
this day, and wilt serve them and answer them, and speak good words to
them, then they will be thy servants for ever. But he forsook the
counsel of the old men ... and consulted with the young men that were
grown up with him, ... and he said unto them, What counsel give ye?...
and the young men ... spake unto him saying, Thus shalt thou speak unto
this people:... My little finger shall be thicker than my father’s
loins. And now whereas my father did lade you with a heavy yoke, I will
add to your yoke: my father hath chastised you with whips, but I will
chastise you with scorpions. So Jeroboam and all the people came to
Rehoboam the third day, as the King had appointed.... And the King
answered the people roughly, and forsook the old men’s counsel ... and
spake to them after the counsel of the young men, saying, My father made
your yoke heavy, and I will add to your yoke: my father also chastised
you with whips, but I will chastise you with scorpions. Wherefore the
King hearkened not unto the people.... So when all Israel saw that the
King hearkened not unto them, the people answered the King, saying, What
portion have we in David?... To your tents, O Israel.... So Israel
departed unto their tents.... Therefore King Rehoboam made speed to get
him up to his chariot, to flee to Jerusalem. So Israel rebelled against
the house of David.’

“That is the whole history of the reign of Nicholas II., and it is the
history of many other reigns also. There are no new elements in history.
History is a kaleidoscope containing a limited number of bits of
many-coloured glass, which, by being perpetually shaken, form patterns
which recur, and combinations which seem new, but which in reality have
been before and will be again. That is why the people who are snubbed
for saying the revolutionary movement in Russia resembles the French
Revolution are not so far wrong, because the same causes produce the
same effects, and the situations, though superficially widely different,
are alike in their essentials. Well, what is it you want to talk to me
about?”

“I want to know what you think of the present situation,” I answered.
“Providence,” said Dimitri Nikolaievitch, “has been kind to the
Government in vouchsafing them a foreign loan, in spite of the German
Emperor’s disapproval.”

“Do you think that the bitterness it has created among the parties of
the Left is a serious matter?” I interrupted.

“No,” said Dimitri Nikolaievitch, “I do not; and for this reason: I
think that all talk about the loan now is, as Hamlet said, ‘Words,
words, words.’ What does it all amount to? The Government say that
unless the loan had been made before the Duma had met national
bankruptcy would have ensued. The Liberals say a fortnight more or less
could not have mattered, and the Government made the loan to be
independent of the Duma. To which it is answered that the money is
obviously for past deficits and not for present schemes. But, say
others, the real reason why the loan was made before the Duma met was
that had it not been made the Government would have been absolutely at
the mercy of the Duma. ‘That is exactly what we wanted,’ say the Social
revolutionaries, because, short of such pressure, the Government will
never do anything constitutional. ‘The Government should have trusted
the patriotism of the Duma to accept the loan,’ say the Liberals. ‘The
foreign bankers have dealt a dastardly blow at the movement for Russian
freedom,’ say the Social revolutionaries. I say that this is all ‘Words,
words, words.’ The money was imperatively necessary. National bankruptcy
cannot be the best springboard for the initial leap of the Duma. And as
to its effect on the movement of liberation—that is, I believe, the
polite term for what I call the Revolution—I do not believe that it
matters one straw. Supposing the loan had been postponed, the bitterness
against the Government would not have been lessened, and national
bankruptcy would not have made the situation any easier for the Cadets.
You will object that the Social revolutionaries probably would have
welcomed national bankruptcy. Of course, everything depends on the
action of the Government now. What will happen? This Ministry cannot
face the Duma. M. Durnovo will have to resign. It has been published all
this week in the newspapers that Count Witte has resigned. We infer from
this that Count Witte intends either to remain without M. Durnovo or to
leave. But supposing his resignation is accepted and M. Durnovo
remains?”

“But you do not think——” I interrupted.

“All things are possible,” rejoined Dimitri Nikolaievitch; “remember
that; because a course is suicidal that is no guarantee that it will not
be taken; the contrary rather is true. Remember the story of Rehoboam I
have just read you: ‘Es ist eine alte Geschichte, doch bleibt sie immer
neu.’”

“But in any case,” I asked, “how do you think any present or future
Government will deal with the Duma?”

“That depends,” he answered, “of course, on who has to deal with it. If
the Duma is prorogued after a short session the situation will be
hazardous. On the other hand, the whole thing may go off without any
great cataclysm. The Cadets do not believe in the dispersal of the Duma.
But if we have to take for granted that the higher authorities will
behave wisely, in order to ensure things going smoothly, our optimism is
put to a high trial. We have so few, we have not one precedent for wise
conduct on the part of our Government. There is one comforting thing I
can tell you, and that is that I feel certain of this: Whatever
cataclysms may occur, in ten years’ time Russia will be in a flourishing
condition. Those who talk of Russia being financially unsound talk
nonsense. Look at the country now; in spite of a disastrous war, a
universal strike, other strikes, revolution, and armed risings, trade is
simply humming. The head of one of your biggest English firms here told
me yesterday that except the iron trade all the industries are in a
flourishing condition. Orders come pouring in. Therefore, as regards the
ultimate outlook I am optimistic, whatever happens in the immediate
future; whether everything goes jolting on somehow, as may very well
happen in Russia, or whether there is a frightful crash in the month of
May. Both things are equally possible. So far what has happened is
simple. The autocracy was made bankrupt by the war—bankrupt morally, I
mean. An attempt was made to pass a sponge over the bankruptcy; this led
to a universal strike; then the bankruptcy was recognised, and Count
Witte was summoned to liquidate the affairs of the old firm. The
liquidation was necessarily a troublous time; nobody was anxious to be
concerned in it; certainly none of the people who intended to join the
new firm later. Therefore members of the old firm had to be chosen. They
got somewhat out of hand. Now the liquidation has come to a close. The
new firm is going to start business. If it is impeded it will blow up
the bank with dynamite and build a new house. But such an explosion will
only affect the staff of the old establishment and not the resources of
the new firm, which are the kingdoms of Russia—an incredibly rich and
undeveloped concern. If you ask my opinion, I do not think that any such
explosion is inevitable, but the Government will no doubt take pains to
bring it about. Three years ago a revolution seemed to be an
impossibility in Russia. The Government have almost succeeded in making
the reverse an improbability.

“But all this is, as I told you, ‘Words, words, words,’ and I refuse to
say another word about politics.”

CHAPTER XVI
THE AGRARIAN QUESTION—ON THE EVE OF THE DUMA

SOSNOFKA, _April 29th_.

To understand the cause of the present state of agriculture in Russia,
owing to the disastrous nature of which the agricultural question is the
acutest of the problems which have to be settled by the Duma, it is
necessary to go back to the time of the emancipation of the serfs.

It is from this epoch that the ruin of Russian agriculture primarily
dates; it was then that the first crash occurred, and it was due to the
following causes. The landlords, who had been accustomed to obtain
manual labour for nothing, proved incapable of adapting themselves at
once to the new conditions, and they did one of two things. They either
spent the money they received from the Government in return for the land
which they had given up in fruitless efforts to make agricultural
improvements—fruitless because, being devoid of practical knowledge,
they did what was not necessary and left undone what was imperative; or
they simply spent the money anyhow until they had none left. Hence
agricultural depression. Half the landlords in Russia disappeared, and
their vacant places were occupied firstly in a small degree by peasants,
and secondly in a greater degree by merchants, who were determined to
extract the uttermost farthing from their possessions. In this manner
there came into existence a new and mixed class of landed proprietors,
who can be divided into two principal sections: (1) Those who let all
their land to the peasants; (2) those who endeavoured as far as possible
to carry on agriculture rationally, and arrived, in spite of the
obstacles inherent in the circumstances, at comparatively good results.

As everybody is probably now aware, the question of expropriation of
private property is being brought forward as a solution of the land
question. And the question of expropriation as it is now being discussed
applies to the second as well as the first class of proprietors
mentioned above. With regard to the first class there is no possible
argument against the expropriation of all their land. With regard to the
second class, their land, considered from the point of view of the
State, represents a considerable asset. If this land were immediately to
be handed over in entirety to the peasants, the value that it represents
to the State would cease to exist, because the peasants have not at this
moment the means of keeping the output of the land up to its present
level. And it would be impossible at this moment for the State to
provide them with the necessary means. It is just because the peasants
are without the necessary means—because, in a word, they are too
poor—that they are asking for more land.

Therefore, from the point of view of the State, it is clear that if a
plan of wholesale expropriation is put into practice the immediate
results will be a decrease of public revenue and an increase of
agricultural depression all over Russia. If we look at the question from
the point of view of the peasants, the relief which they would obtain by
wholesale expropriation would be only of a temporary nature, even if we
presuppose that the distribution of land could be carried out on the
same scale and in the same proportion as at the time of the emancipation
of the serfs, which is improbable. The relief would be only temporary,
because owing to the constant increase of the population the land would
dwindle in an equally constant and increasing process of subdivision,
and the State would be unable to come to the aid of the peasants and to
furnish them with the means of improving their methods of agriculture,
owing to the fall of revenue occasioned as aforesaid by the
expropriation.

Besides the expropriation of private property, what further solutions
are suggested? There are two further schemes which are under discussion:
expropriation of the lands belonging to the State, and emigration into
the undeveloped portions of the Russian Empire. There are in Russia
large stretches of land belonging to the State and to the Crown; but
they consist principally of woods, and it is therefore highly
undesirable that they should be touched, for since Russia suffers from
extremes of heat and cold, from dryness, and from the continental
quality of its climate, the woods, which give moisture, are of the
utmost value, especially at the present moment when so many woods
belonging to private landowners have been and are being cut down.

Next comes the question of emigration. There exist in Siberia and
Turkestan immense stretches of rich and fertile country; this being so
it is obvious that if an emigration scheme could be carried out on a
large scale the land question would be on a fair way towards settlement,
and the State would be in possession of fresh resources.

The Left parties in general meet this plan with two objections: they say
(1) that the peasants are not capable of adapting themselves to the new
local conditions of agriculture which they would have to face; (2) that
the expenses entailed by the agricultural installation of the emigrants,
who would have to be provided with everything, could not possibly be
met, and that therefore emigration cannot be regarded as a definite
solution of the land question.

These objections are in their turn met with the following
counter-arguments. It is said that the first objection has been proved
to be groundless by the cases of emigration in Turkestan, where it is
seen that the peasants who emigrate thither adapt themselves with
surprising facility and rapidity to new conditions, which include a
peculiarly complicated system of irrigation, and have nothing in common
with the agricultural conditions of Russia proper. It might also be
stated that Russians in general, and the peasants in particular, are a
singularly adaptable race, as is proved by the ease and the speed with
which those who emigrate to Europe and America adapt themselves to their
altered circumstances.

As to the second question, that of expense, it is far more serious. But
here it is objected that the premises on which those who are opposed to
emigration on the grounds of expense base their arguments are derived
from the results obtained at an epoch when emigration, like everything
else, was as badly managed as possible; and that owing to this bad
management hostility towards emigration was aroused among the peasants
themselves, who as it is, do not care to leave their homes unless they
are obliged to do so. That emigration is one of the possible radical
methods of solving the land question is obvious. It is further obvious
that if it is to be adopted a system of investigation into the
suitability of places for emigration and likewise a system of means of
communication must be organised. It is equally obvious that the State
must not only furnish material aid but moral aid by furthering
educational progress and the amelioration of general culture by every
means at its disposal.

It is hardly necessary to say now that up to the present the State has
acted in the contrary sense by every means at its disposal. There was a
moment after the emancipation under Alexander II. when this was not so,
and efforts towards general improvement were made; this epoch did not
last long, and progress was definitively checked by the reactionary
_régime_ of Alexander III., which reached its culminating point under
the reign of M. Plehve. That it is feasible to make for progress in
Russia and that this is not a Utopian ideal is proved by the simple fact
that in spite of all the obstacles created by the Government, schools,
instituted by the Zemstva, have flourished, with the result that,
roughly speaking, 40 per cent. of the younger generation in Russia can
now read and write, whereas at the time of the emancipation of the
serfs, when the Zemstva came into existence, 2 per cent. only could read
and write.

This question—the promotion of universal culture by which alone progress
can come—is the most acute of all the questions now existing in Russia,
because the country has been driven by the present system to the extreme
limits of its endurance—to the very brink of ruin, to the uttermost
desperation. And it will not, therefore, be surprising if the reaction
in the opposite direction is equally violent, and Russia passes from one
extreme to the other; in which case those who are responsible for not
having put an end to the present _régime_, until they felt the knife at
their throats, and even then reluctantly, will find food for not
altogether cheerful reflection.

SOSNOFKA, _April 30th_.

I have been ten days in the country and have seen the pageant of early
spring in Russia. The trees are not yet all green, but the blossom is
out everywhere, and the bees are buzzing round it and filling the air
with their noise. To-day we went to see the examination held in the
school. The children were examined in Scripture, geography, and reading.
I did not stay the whole time. The children I heard acquitted themselves
splendidly. I was allowed to look over and mark some of the dictations.
After the examination was over we had dinner with the schoolmaster and
played “preference.” A neighbour, who looked in at the schoolmaster’s,
said that he was pleased to see the Russian Government was coming to its
senses in one respect, and trying to arrive at an understanding with the
British Government.

MOSCOW, _May 7th_.

In a few days the Russian Parliament will be sitting, the curtain will
have risen, the drama will be in full swing, and the echoes and
impressions of to-day will have been forgotten and superseded by the
rumour of more important events. And yet significant things have
happened in the last few days. The resignation of Count Witte did not
come as a surprise; we knew during the last ten days that Count Witte
had sent in his resignation; but the resignation of M. Durnovo was
somewhat unexpected. It was generally said that Count Witte would go,
and that M. Durnovo would remain.

The popular attitude towards Count Witte during the last year must be of
singular interest to those to whom the contemplation of human affairs
affords a melancholy amusement. The enthusiasm with which the hero of
Portsmouth was received; the further enthusiasm created by his report to
the Emperor; the Manifesto of October 17th, which everybody knew would
not and could not have been but for Count Witte; then the gradual tide
of reaction; at first, faults but hinted and dislike but hesitated;
distrust, latent, but scarcely expressed; then impatient questioning;
conflicting criticism; manifold explanation; and very soon unanimous
blame, and venomous vituperation, hatred, and abuse. When time has swept
away the dust-clouds of partiality, partisanship, and passion, the work
of Count Witte will stand out clear in the impartial light of history. I
do not think the verdict can be a severe one. Count Witte’s task was to
get to the Duma somehow or other, to keep things going until the Duma
should meet, without a general breakdown. This task he accomplished, and
he has managed to get a foreign loan into the bargain. That it was an
easy task not the most fanatical of his opponents would say; that he was
hampered on all sides is obvious; that his instruments broke in his
hands is likewise obvious; that not only no shadow of loyal co-operation
was shown to him by his colleagues, but that even his subordinates
flatly refused to obey him, was proved by one or two incidents which
occurred during the last fortnight, such as the case of the Kharkov
Professor, sent to exile by M. Durnovo, in spite of Count Witte’s
express and expressed desire, and the case of M. Sipiagin, who was not
permitted to go to Sevastopol, in spite of Count Witte’s categorical
instructions. Whether Count Witte made the most of his opportunities I
do not know, and the man who passes a sweeping judgment on this point
will be bold; but I am convinced of one thing, and that is that no man
in Russia would have performed the task which was Count Witte’s, given
the peculiar circumstances of the case, better. Count Witte and M.
Durnovo have gone, and their places have been taken by a Cabinet
exclusively bureaucratical and reactionary. What is the meaning of this?
I asked some one yesterday whether this Cabinet was meant to be of a
temporary nature.

“It’s put there to be kicked out,” he answered. “Mind you, I mean
_kicked_ out,” he continued, “and not to go of its own accord.” If this
is the case, what my friend Dimitri Nikolaievitch hinted to me at St.
Petersburg—namely, that the fact that a course was fatal, so far from
constituting a guarantee that it would not be adopted, on the contrary
weighed down the balance of probabilities in its favour—has come true. I
cannot quite bring myself to believe it. It is only when we turn to the
past—to the history of revolutionary movements in every country and at
every epoch—that we see how, in obedience to some mysterious law, a
fatal mist seems to blind those in authority, and how they deliberately
choose the disastrous course the perils of which seem to us so obvious,
and the avoidance of which seems to us so simple. In 1769 Junius
addressed the King as follows:—

“We separate the amiable, good-natured Prince from the folly and
treachery of his servants, and the private virtues of the man from the
vices of his Government. Were it not for this just distinction I know
not whether your Majesty’s condition or that of the English people would
deserve most to be lamented.... Your subjects, Sir, wish for nothing but
that as _they_ are reasonable and affectionate enough to separate your
person from your Government; so _you_, in your turn, would distinguish
between the conduct which becomes the permanent dignity of a King, and
that which serves only to promote the temporary interest and miserable
ambition of a Minister.”

In the same letter he wrote as follows about the Army:—

“From the uses to which one part of the Army has been too frequently
applied you have some reason to expect that there are no services they
would refuse. Here, too, we trace the partiality of your understanding.
You take the sense of the Army from the conduct of the Guards, with the
same justice that you collect the sense of the people from the
representations of the Ministry. Your marching regiments, sir, will not
make the Guards their example either as soldiers or subjects. They feel
and resent, as they ought to do, that invariable undistinguishing favour
with which the Guards are treated; while those gallant troops, by whom
every hazardous, every laborious service is performed, are left to
perish in garrisons abroad or pine in quarters at home, neglected and
forgotten. If they had no sense of the great original duty they owe
their country, their resentment would operate like patriotism, and leave
your cause to be defended by those on whom you have lavished the rewards
and honours of their profession.”

Finally, he makes an appeal which has been made at all times and in all
countries in times of popular dissatisfaction, and has always been made
in vain. The words which I am about to quote embody what has been
thought in this country during all the last months by the vast majority
of thinking people, by all who had brains to think and were not blinded
by fanatical rage.

“Without consulting your Minister, call together your whole Council. Let
it appear to the public that you can determine and act for yourself.
Come forward to your people; lay aside the wretched formalities of a
king and speak to your subjects with the spirit of a man and in the
language of a gentleman. Tell them you have been fatally deceived: the
acknowledgment will be no disgrace, but rather an honour to your
understanding. Tell them you are determined to remove every cause of
complaint against your Government; that you will give your confidence to
no man that does not possess the confidence of your subjects; and leave
to themselves to determine, by their conduct at a future election,
whether or not it be in reality the general sense of the nation that
their rights have been arbitrarily invaded....”

Hope, indeed, springs eternal in the human breast; otherwise people
would not persist in giving such admirable, such simple advice, seeing
how little chance there is that it will ever be adopted.

Yesterday morning a man threw a bomb at the Governor-General’s carriage,
killing his _aide-de-camp_ and losing his own life, while the
Governor-General escaped miraculously. About an hour after the explosion
I went to the Hôtel Dresden with a naval officer who was staying with
me. It appeared that the man who had thrown the bomb was disguised as a
naval officer; a man in such a costume is seldom seen in Moscow, and is
certain to attract attention. I and my naval friend had already been to
the hotel in the morning; when we returned the hotel keeper said to us,
“You are suspected of having thrown the bomb.” It was easy to prove that
we were not guilty, owing to the presence of the dead man who had done
the deed. His naked body was lying in a house on one side of the Square;
he had a horrible wound in his head. The attitude of the general public
with regard to the attempt was curious. When we got home, people said to
us, “Have you heard the news? What a pity that two men were killed
uselessly, and that the Governor-General escaped!” They talked about it
exactly as if they had narrowly missed backing a winner. Later I heard
of two girls who quarrelled because one of them said that she was sorry
the _aide-de-camp_ had been killed. The lower classes do not seem to pay
the slightest attention to the matter. In the middle classes people have
lost all moral sense with regard to these outrages. They consider that
throwing bombs is a kind of lynch-law; they do not distinguish one
individual from another, the honest from the dishonest, the harmless
from the guilty. But the people who are to be blamed are those who, by
bringing certain things to pass, have created this feeling. When the
Government takes no notice of outrages committed on the people, and
allows the perpetrators to go scot free, it is not to be wondered that
the people are “more than usual calm” when they hear that a governor has
been blown up. It is none the less very demoralising for the present
young generation in Russia.

_May 11th._

Two men asked me for some money in the street this morning because they
had been drunk yesterday. I went to the soldiers’ hospital in the
afternoon, and was much struck by the way in which the soldiers talked
of the Duma. These men, during the epoch which had followed the
“Manifesto,” had been violently against what they called the “Strikers.”
They had told me that when the procession attending Bauman’s funeral had
passed the windows of their hospital they would have liked to have shot
the dogs. Now they say that they understand that had there been no
strike there would have been no Duma, and that on the Duma everything
depended. One man asked me how long the Duma would last and when the
first Parliament was made in England. One of the soldiers asked me for
books the other day, and I bought him several of Scott’s novels. He was
so delighted with “Quentin Durward” that the nurse told me he read all
day and would not leave his book for a moment. He told me the whole
story of “Quentin Durward” with the various conversations between the
characters.

CHAPTER XVII
THE OPENING OF THE DUMA

ST. PETERSBURG, _May 14th_.

I had the good fortune to gain admission to the Duma yesterday
afternoon. I think it is the most interesting sight I have ever seen.
When you arrive at the Tauris Palace, which outside has an appearance of
dignified stateliness, the stateliness of the end of the Eighteenth
Century, you walk through a spacious front hall into what looks like a
gigantic white ball-room built in the late Louis XVI. style. This is the
lobby; beyond it is the Hall of the Duma itself. In this long gallery
members and visitors were already flocking, walking up and down,
talking, and smoking cigarettes and throwing away the ashes and the ends
on the polished floor. One saw peasants in their long black coats, some
of them wearing military medals and crosses; popes, Tartars, Poles, men
in every kind of dress except uniform. When the sitting began I went up
into the gallery. The Hall of the Duma itself is likewise white,
delicate in decoration, an essentially gentlemanlike room. The sitting
began about three o’clock. The members go to their appointed places, on
which their cards are fixed, and the impression of diversity of dress
and type becomes still stronger and more picturesque.

You see dignified old men in frock coats, aggressively
democratic-looking “intelligents,” with long hair and pince-nez, a
Polish bishop dressed in purple, who looks like the Pope; men without
collars; members of the proletariate, men in loose Russian shirts with
belts; men dressed by Davies or Poole, and men dressed in the costume of
two centuries ago. The President walked in to his seat under the
portrait of the Emperor, which is a rather shiny study in blue and
white. One thanked Heaven the Duma had not been redecorated in the _art
nouveau_ style, for almost all the modern buildings in Russia, from
Moscow to Kharbin, are built in the mixture of Munich, Maple, and Japan
which is called _art nouveau_ (modern style), and in Russia “decadent.”

The President, C. A. Muromzev, strikes one as dignity itself. He
exercises his functions with perfect serenity and absolute fairness.
After reading congratulatory telegrams from various parts of the Empire
he proceeded to read a motion proposed by a workman of the Government of
Moscow that before proceeding further a telegram should be sent to the
Emperor asking for a general amnesty for political offenders, and
another motion asking for an immediate amnesty, proposed by a peasant. A
debate ensued. The speeches were sensible and moderate. Most of the
members spoke against the motion, and it seemed as if the matter was
settled in the sense that the question of amnesty would be dealt with in
the Reply to the Address and not before, when Professor Kovolievski
proposed a third course, that the President of the Duma should inform
the Emperor of the unanimous desire of the Duma for a general amnesty.
What struck me most in the speeches I heard was the naturalness of their
tone, and the absence of declamatory emphasis. Several of the speeches
were eloquent; only one was tedious. Professor Kovolievski began
speaking in his seat, and went on with his speech quietly and in the
most natural manner conceivable, as he walked up to the tribune, where
he continued it, just as if he were engaged in a quiet talk with a few
intimate friends. A second thing which struck me was the respect and the
instantaneous obedience shown to the President; when he called to order
by ringing his bell the silence was immediate and complete. Soon after
four o’clock there was an _entr’acte_, and the Duma proceeded to elect
the thirty-three members by whom the Reply to the Address is to be drawn
up. The members poured into the gallery, and everywhere small groups
collected discussing various matters; some carried on their discussions
in the adjacent lobbies and rooms; many went to drink tea or have some
food in the dining-room, where the accommodation is excellent.

Many of the small groups where the discussion was being carried on were
interesting. One heard violent ideas and wild words being bandied about.
One peasant said to a friend of mine: “When I look upon this palace my
blood boils; it was built out of the blood and the sweat of the poor.”
So it was. “Then you are a person who nurses hatred?” said my friend.
“Yes,” he answered. “I hate, hate, hate the rich!” Another man told a
lady of my acquaintance that he was a Socialist. She asked him if he was
in favour of the land being made over to the State. He said, “No.” He
explained his views, which were really rather those of an extreme
Radical than of a Socialist, clearly and with intelligence, and at the
end she said to him, “But you are not a Socialist?” “Yes, I am,” he
answered; and asked her who she was. She said that she was the daughter
of a Count who is a member of the Duma. “I am very pleased to have
spoken with a Countess,” he answered, perfectly simply. I saw a big
landed proprietor, he came up to me and said, “This is very amusing for
you; but to me it is life and death.” After the interval the sitting was
continued. At 6.45 p.m. the result of the election of the thirty-three
members was read out, and Professor Kovolievski’s motion was debated
shortly and rejected. After this the question of closure was discussed
and referred to a committee. Then I left. The sitting came to an end
shortly afterwards.

My impression of the whole is that the Duma is far more moderate than I
expected. I do not think, and I never have thought, that the Cadet
leaders are a set of unpractical idealists or terrorists in disguise.
Both these ideas seem to me both to be _a priori_ absurd, and to be
confuted by the facts. Supposing England had been governed for years
solely by the permanent officials without any control whatsoever—and the
only difference that I have ever seen between Russian officials and
those of England or any other country is that the Russian officials are
uncontrolled, and those of other countries are not—supposing that there
were in England a large party headed, let us say, by men such as Mr.
Haldane, Mr. Asquith, Mr. Birrell, Mr. Balfour, Mr. Keir Hardie, Lord
Wemyss, and Lord Percy—I mix up Liberals and Conservatives on purpose,
because if in England there were an autocracy, it is probable that all
our Statesmen, whether Liberal or Conservative, would be on the side of
the opposition—would not the officials and all their supporters with one
voice say that these men were not practical men? The Cadets are not
idealist professors or men of letters or philosophers. They are educated
men, some of them learned and experienced lawyers, some of them acute
men of business, who in any other country would unquestionably play a
part in the government of their country. In Russia (if they have not
been lawyers) they have been of necessity professors—if they have wished
to play any part in public life save that of an official—because no
other course has been open to them. On the day of the opening of the
Duma I went to a Cadet meeting of one branch of the party at Moscow, a
branch representing one small part of the town. The conduct of the
meeting and the character of the speeches were exactly on the level of
the best political meetings in other countries. A lawyer made a most
brilliant speech, based on the soundest common sense. And I am certain
that if any of our leading political men had been present they would
have found nothing to criticise and much to praise.

Of course, the question which is being anxiously asked is whether the
leaders of the Cadets will be able to keep the more violent elements of
their party in hand. The violent element does not seem to me to be a
very large one. And I think that the future violence or moderation of
the Duma will depend very largely on the action of the higher
authorities, and of what is at present the official Government.

Will the Emperor trust M. Muromzev, the President of the Duma? If he
does, the two together will save the situation. Unfortunately, the
impression seems to be prevalent among higher circles in St. Petersburg
that the Cadets are revolutionaries, Jacobins, and terrorists. If one
has attended the Cadet meetings, where they are among themselves and
have no object in concealing either their ideas or their tactics, one
sees that they are entirely separated from the Social Revolutionary
Party, which in its turn looks upon the Cadets with contemptuous scorn.

Yesterday a peasant said in his speech: “We hear it said that we have
millions of men behind us, and we must demand, not ask; these
high-sounding phrases are all very well for a private meeting, but are
out of place in the Duma.” This was a very sensible thing to say; but it
is true, nevertheless, that the Duma has the whole country behind it.
Another peasant, speaking at a small meeting a few days ago, said:
“Russia has waited for the Duma as the chosen people had waited for the
Messiah. Will they dare to crucify it? No, they will not dare. For who
would be the Pilate? The Emperor will not be the Pilate, for, if he were
to call for water in which to wash his hands, he would have to wash his
hands, not in the waters of the Neva, but in the blood of the whole
Russian people.”

ST. PETERSBURG, _May 18th_.

Last night the second reading of the Address in reply to the Speech from
the Throne was passed by the Duma. What will be the attitude of the
Government with regard to the demands which have been formulated? As far
as I have been able to gauge it, the attitude of the supporters of the
Government and of the more Conservative element in the Council of Empire
is this: they say the demands of the Duma are impossible; that the Duma
is not a representative Duma; that no notice must be paid to its
extravagant and foolish talk; that it must be allowed to talk on, and
that Russia will then see that its demands are preposterous. This I
believe to be the attitude of the Government. In support of its
contention that the Duma is not representative, it alleges that Count
Witte is to blame in having insisted on suffrage by three degrees. Had
there been universal suffrage, they add, the Duma would have been more
Conservative. The day before yesterday I attended the sitting of the
Council of Empire, and during the interval I had some conversation with
some of the members, and these were the kind of things I heard. Then I
went to the Duma and I talked to the peasants. I asked one of them if he
thought it was true that the Duma was not representative and whether the
opinions it expressed were a faithful reflection of the opinion of the
country. He said that the opinion in the country was far stronger than
anything which had been expressed in the Duma. I believe that he was
perfectly right. One can only judge by one’s personal experience, and
wherever I have been during the last month I have found the feeling
among the people dangerously tense and inexpressibly vehement. I said to
this peasant, who came from the Government of Archangel: “Do they expect
much of the Duma in your part of the country?” “They expect nothing at
all,” he answered, “because the Government will never give the Duma what
it wants, and we shall have to disperse.” “And then?” I asked. “Then we
shall take what we want,” he said very calmly. “There has always been a
wall of bureaucracy between us and the Emperor,” he continued, “and that
wall is still there.” Talking to other members I found that they were
just as little illusioned with regard to the attitude of the Government
as the peasant from Archangel. One of them said to me: “Yes; it means
there will be a conflict.” Another said: “There is no connecting link
between us and the Emperor. We must have a responsible Ministry, and it
is on that point that the struggle will be centred.” Another peasant
said to me: “We are not opposed to having two Houses; but we are opposed
to the Council of Empire as it now stands, because half of it consists
of the same Bureaucrats who have been the cause of all our trouble.”

I spent the whole of yesterday and most of the day before in the Duma,
and listened to a great many speeches. The most salient fact about the
sittings of the Duma is their extreme orderliness. People say that this
is because the members are new to their business and that the Duma will
soon learn to be as disorderly as the House of Commons. It is a fact, of
course, that the absence of conflict arising from the friction between
sharply-defined parties contributes to the general harmony. But I doubt
if the Duma will ever be a very turbulent Parliament. Russians have a
peculiar talent for listening to public speaking. I have noticed this
constantly. I have sometimes wondered, for instance, whether it was
possible for a play to be hissed off the stage in Russia just because it
is tedious. A Russian audience seems to me capable of listening
patiently to act after act of uneventful and colourless dialogue, to
things which would drive an Italian audience to frenzy in five minutes,
and would bore the British public into throwing a dead cat on the stage.
When they act “Julius Cæsar” in Russia the scene in which Mark Antony
makes his speech loses half its effect by the attitude of the crowd on
the stage, who stand listening in perfect silence, like moujiks
listening to a sermon in church.

Yesterday the Duma sat from 11.30 a.m. until past midnight, with a very
short interval. The weather was stiflingly hot, and yet the House
listened to a series of not very lively speeches, not only with decorous
patience, but with keen interest. The most striking orators so far seem
to be Professor Kovolievski, and MM. Rodichev and Aladin, the first
being remarkable for his perfect naturalness, the second for his rather
theatrical eloquence, which, I confess, does not appeal to me
personally, but pleases most people, and the third for his
uncompromising directness of speech and powerful driving force. There
are others besides these, and among them some of the peasants, who speak
extremely well. I asked a peasant who spoke best. He said: “Rodichev
spoke very well, and Jilkin (principal representative of the peasant
group) spoke well and quietly.” I mentioned Aladin. “He is an angry
speaker,” he said. “He knows, but he ought to speak more gently.” M.
Aladin has spent many years in England, whither he went as an immigrant.
Mirabeau heard Robespierre speak at the States-General (I think), and
said: “That young man will go very far, for he believes everything he
says.” I think this would apply to M. Aladin.

I heard some one say to a peasant who came from the South of Russia:
“You should think of your common interests; if each class only thinks of
itself what will happen? Do you think that one can be happy just by
possessing land?” Then, in the course of discussion on the state of the
peasants in Russia, he suddenly asked: “How long ago is it since Christ
died?” When he was told he answered: “When will people begin to be
Christians?”

Last night, when I was driving home from the Duma, my cabman asked me
many questions about it, and he said that he had been a soldier himself
and saw a great deal of the soldiers here, and that if the Duma was
dispersed or came to nothing and the Government attempted to exercise
repressive measures they would refuse to fight, because what applied to
the peasants applied to them. They were peasants, and the only way in
which their lot could be bettered was by the lot of the peasants being
bettered. “The Government,” he added, “does not want things to go
quietly.” It wants a _bunt_ (a rising), so that it can put it down by
force and then go on as before as in the good old days, but this time it
will not succeed, because the soldiers will refuse to fire, and there
will be a row such as there was at Kronstadt, only on a far larger
scale, and St. Petersburg will be looted.

_May 20th._

This evening, as I was walking home to my lodgings, I was attracted by
signs of disturbance in a side street off the Big Morskaia, where I
live. I went to see what was happening. A drunken soldier was lurching
down the street, making rude remarks to the passers-by. He was arrested
and with difficulty guided to the police station, which happened to be
in that street, by two policemen.

When they went into the police station a small crowd of men, women, and
children collected round the door, which was guarded by a small boy of
about twelve years of age.

A woman, with a shawl over her head, made an indignant speech to the
assembled public about the arbitrariness of the police in arresting the
poor soldiers. “We know,” she said, “what goes on in there. They’re
beating him now.”

“Shame!” cried the crowd, and made a move for the door. But the unkempt
little boy who was guarding it said: “You can’t come in here.”

“Ah, we know you _dvorniks_” (door-keepers), said the woman, “you are
worse than the police.” “Yah!” joined in the crowd, and a child said to
the boy, with inexpressible contempt, “Ugh! _Satrap!_ Police station
chicken!”

Then the crowd broke up.

CHAPTER XVIII
FURTHER IMPRESSIONS OF THE DUMA

_May 23rd._

Every time I pay a fresh visit to the Duma I am struck by the
originality of the appearance of its members. There is a Polish member
who is dressed in light blue tights, a short Eton jacket and Hessian
boots. He has curly hair, and looks exactly like the hero of the
“Cavalleria Rusticana.” There is a Polish member who is dressed in a
long white flannel coat reaching to his knees, adorned with an intricate
pattern of dark crimson braid, and he also wears a long, soft, brown
sleeveless cloak hanging from his shoulders, bordered with vermilion
stripes. There are some Socialists who wear no collars, and there is, of
course, every kind of head-dress you can conceive. The second, and what
is to me the principal impression of the Duma, is the familiar ease with
which the members speak; some of them speak well, and some of them speak
badly, but they all speak as if they had spoken in Parliament all their
lives, without the slightest evidence of nervousness or shyness. The
sittings of the Duma are like a meeting of acquaintances in a club or a
_café_. There is nothing formal about them. The member walks up to the
tribune and sometimes has a short conversation with the President before
beginning his speech. Sometimes when he is called to order he indulges
in a brief explanation. The last sitting I attended they did their work
in a most business-like manner and got through it fairly quickly and
without many speeches. The peasants think there is too much speaking
altogether. One of them said to me, “There are people here who have no
right to be here.” “Who?” I asked. “Popes, for instance,” he said. “Why
shouldn’t Popes be members?” I asked. “Because they get 200 roubles a
year,” he answered; “what more can they want?” If this principle were
carried out in England there would be no members of Parliament at all.

Nobody can possibly say the Duma is disorderly; it takes itself with
profound seriousness. Only one person has made a joke so far. But there
have been many dramatic moments; for instance, when the President
announced that he was not to be received by the Emperor, and when for
the first time, in breathless silence, one of the Under Ministers spoke
from the Ministerial Bench. The beauty of the hall in which the members
sit is increased by its outlook, for the windows form a semicircle
behind the President’s chair and they look out on a sheet of water and
trees; a kind of Watteau-Versailles landscape where _fêtes galantes_
were once probably held. Two peasants cross-questioned me narrowly the
other day about England and English Parliamentary institutions. They
asked me if there was an income tax in England, what sort of education I
had received, what was the state of agriculture in England, what was the
rotation of the crops (to which question I gave a vaguely complicated
answer), and how long the House of Commons had existed.

On Monday morning an amusing incident occurred in the Lobby; on the
notice-board a telegram from the _Temps_ was pinned, in which it was
said that the demands of the Duma were unreasonable. One of the peasants
strongly objected to this, and said that it might influence the
peasants. It was pointed out to him that telegrams were posted in the
House of Commons and in all Parliaments. He then said, “Why don’t they
put up all the telegrams? Why do they choose that telegram in
particular? Besides, the English House of Commons has existed for
centuries; our Parliament is being born, and to do that sort of thing is
like interfering with a woman when she is giving birth to a child.” If
it be urged that the members of the Duma have spoken a great deal, I
should like to remind my readers that they have got through a great deal
of business in a short time. They passed the rules with regard to
closure and the Address comparatively quickly, and they have now their
Agrarian Bill ready for discussion.

Last Sunday I spent the afternoon at Peterhof, a suburb of St.
Petersburg, where the Emperor lives. There in the park amidst the trees
the splashing waterfalls and the tall fountains, “les grands jets d’eau
sveltes parmi les marbres,” the lilac bushes, and the song of many
nightingales, the middle classes were enjoying their Sunday afternoon
and the music of a band. In this beautiful and not inappropriate setting
suddenly the Empress of Russia passed in an open carriage, without any
escort, looking as beautiful as a flower. I could not help thinking of
Marie Antoinette at the Trianon, and I wondered whether three thousand
swords would leap from their scabbards on her behalf.

ST. PETERSBURG, _May 24th_.

One is repeatedly told by the best authorities that it is a mistake to
compare what is taking place now in Russia with the French Revolution.
It is, I know, misleading, and yet I cannot help thinking that, besides
the fact of all revolutions having more or less the same fundamental
causes, and proceeding, broadly speaking, on the same lines, there are
certain superficial resemblances of detail between the two movements
which are startling. What occurred in Russia last year was, properly
speaking, a prologue; it was not comparable to the events of 1789,
because we had not in Russia yet reached the period which corresponds to
1789. But now with the opening of the Duma it seems to me that we are
reaching this point. This evening a Russian friend of mine asked me to
glance at a short manual of French history which was lying on the table
and to notice how striking the resemblance is between the account of the
opening of the States-General and that of the Duma.

Before discussing this point there is a greater and more important
resemblance to be noted, namely, that the Constitutional Democrats or
the Cadets are not only playing the part, but are in their essence the
same thing, as the Tiers-État in France. The Constitutional Democrats
represent the whole of the educated middle class of Russia, and they are
championing the rights and the wishes of the peasants. It is, therefore,
a case, if ever, of saying like Sieyès: “Qu’est-ce que le Tiers-État?—La
nation. Qu’est-il?—Rien. Que doit-il être?—Tout.” Up to now the
Tiers-État in Russia has been politically nothing. In the future it will
probably be everything.

What do the Cadets want? I find the answer in my French history.
“Établir l’unité politique et sociale de la nation par l’égalité devant
la loi et la garantir par la liberté, c’était là, en deux mots, tout
l’esprit de 1789.” That is also the whole spirit of 1906. People both in
Russia as well as abroad minimise the pretensions of the Cadets because
they are unaware of the existence, or rather of the nature, of the
middle class in Russia. This is not surprising, because the middle
class, besides having been denied all access to political life, has
produced no startlingly great men in the branches of production which
obtain popular fame. The great Russian writers and artists came nearly
all from the aristocracy or from the peasantry. Men who have contributed
much to modern science have abounded in the middle class, but the fame
of such men is rarely popular. But now the work which the Cadets have so
far accomplished politically is a work which needs not a few great men,
but a compact mass of men who are agreed.

To go back to the French Revolution. It is striking to read sentences
such as the following, describing the opening of the States-General:
“Dès le 2 mai tous les députés furent présentés au roi; le 4, ils se
rendirent en procession solennelle à l’église de Saint-Louis....
L’étiquette avait assigné aux députés du Tiers un modeste vêtement noir;
ils furent couverts d’applaudissements. Les habits brodés de la noblesse
passèrent au milieu du silence.... Le 5 mai s’ouvrirent les États.... Le
roi était sur son trône, entouré des princes du sang; sur les degrés se
tenait la cour. Le reste de la salle était occupé par les trois
ordres ... le roi exprima, en quelques nobles paroles, ses vœux pour le
bonheur de la nation, convia les États à travailler, en les engageant à
remédier aux maux, sans se laisser entraîner au désir exagéré
d’innovations, qui s’est emparé des esprits.” The powers which were
conferred upon the States-General were similar, both as regards their
extent and their limitations, to those of the Duma, and the spirit in
which they were given then was just the same as that in which they have
been given here. The members of the States-General cheered the King. And
the silence with which the members of the Duma met the Emperor recalls
the phrase of the Bishop of Chartres to the National Assembly, after the
taking of the Bastille, “Le silence du peuple est la leçon des rois.”
Unhappily the lesson is not generally learnt.

The Duma worked hard last week to finish the debate on the reply to the
Speech from the Throne. The third reading was passed at three o’clock in
the morning last Friday. It must be noted that the majority of the Duma
seem to have made a grievous mistake in refusing to add a clause to
their address deprecating the murder of policemen by anarchists; only
five members of the Right supported this clause. Later on Friday morning
the President of the Chamber asked for an audience of the Emperor, and
it was thought that no time would be lost in letting him present the
address, since all Russia was waiting breathless for the event. Friday
passed, Saturday also, and Sunday, and conflicting rumours as to the
reception of the President by the Emperor were continually spreading in
the city.

Late on Sunday night it became known that the Emperor had refused to
receive the President and his deputation, and it was ordained that the
address should be presented through official channels. The news was not
believed at first. The blunder seemed too great. Somebody had prophesied
to me on Sunday that such a course would be adopted, as a joke, never
dreaming that it would really be the case. On Monday morning it was
announced in the newspapers, and when I arrived at the Duma, I found
that the place was in a state of agitation. “The Government is defying
us,” was the general expression. An official remarked that the farce was
over; that the Duma would proceed to make a fool of itself by some
explosion of violence, and discredit itself for ever. This did not
occur. A short meeting of the party was held in one of the Committee
rooms, and Professor Milioukov, in an eloquent speech, pointed out the
extreme folly of any policy of violence, and his party agreed with him
unanimously. This lasted about three-quarters of an hour. Then the
debate opened; the President announced the intimation he had received as
regards his audience. M. Aladin made a speech in which he gave
expression to the general resentment at the way in which the Duma had
been treated. Professor Kovolievski analysed the situation, and
illustrated it with parallels from the procedure of other countries, and
then the House went on to the business of the day with unruffled
serenity.

Considering the intense bitterness of feeling created by the action of
the Emperor, the behaviour of the Duma was miraculous in its good sense
and moderation. But the fact that this action was received quietly does
not wipe out its effect as an irreparable blunder. The peasants were
more incensed than all, even the most conservative of the peasants. One
of them said to me: “The Emperor would not receive our delegates,” in a
tone of deep resentment, and this evening the telegrams tell us that the
feeling created in the provinces where the news has arrived is
alarmingly bitter. It is a melancholy fact that if a course is fatal it
will probably be taken. I have begun to think that the higher
authorities here are destined to take no single step which is not fatal.
When one reads the history of France, one understands people making the
mistakes they made, as they had not the glaring example of the past
before them; but it is hard to imagine how people who have read the
history of France can persist in making the very same mistakes over
again. Probably the Government relies—and perhaps rightly—on the troops
when the inevitable struggle comes. I asked a peasant member of the Duma
yesterday what he thought about that; he said that he had talked with
many soldiers, and that they would refuse to fight if it was to be
against the Duma. The peasant may be mistaken; he may be cherishing an
illusion. But what is undeniable is the fact that the existence of the
Duma entirely changes the situation of the Army in the event of a great
rising. Because the soldiers now know that, if the Duma falls, the
struggle of the peasants for land and liberty is lost, and the cause of
peasants is their cause, because they are peasants. In 1789 Paris was
full of troops for the purpose of keeping order. Paris was like an armed
camp. Eleven soldiers of the Guard were arrested in July for their
opinions. The National Assembly demanded the dispersal of the troops,
“dont la présence irritait les esprits,” and Mirabeau, commenting on the
line of conduct adopted by the advisers of the King, put the following
question: “Ont-ils observé par quel funeste enchainement de
circonstances les esprits les plus sages sont jetés hors des limites de
la modération, et par quelle impulsion terrible un peuple enivré se
précipite vers des excès, dont la première idée l’eût fait frémir?”

_May 24th._

I was talking to-night with a very cultivated Russian officer whom I had
known in Manchuria, who was a great admirer of Rudyard Kipling. He said
the “Jungle Book” was one of his favourite books. He said he thought
there was a certain kind of Jingoism to which he considered it weak on
Rudyard Kipling’s part to stoop. He did not mean the patriotism which
inspired his work in the sense of praise of England; but the passages
which were directed against other countries, such as France or Russia.
He cited the story “The Man that Was.” He said he knew a true story of
an Englishman made prisoner in the Crimean War. This Englishman had been
very ill during his captivity and was taken care of by a Russian family.
When peace was declared he returned to England. Two years afterwards he
died, and his mother had been so touched by the way in which he had been
looked after by the Russians with whom he had lived and by the way he
had always spoken of them, that she sent them a ring which had belonged
to him and a lock of his hair. He gave me the names. He said he always
wished to write and tell Kipling about this.

CHAPTER XIX
THE DEADLOCK

ST. PETERSBURG, _May 27th_.

Events here are succeeding one another with such rapidity that by the
time what one has written reaches England it is already out of date.
Yesterday was the most important day there has been up to the present in
the history of the Russian Parliament. We had been more or less prepared
by the Press for the contents of the Address of the Prime Minister to
the Duma; nevertheless, its uncompromising character, once it was
revealed in black and white, was of the nature of a shock, even to the
pessimistic. There are certain things in which one prefers not to
believe until one sees them. The strangers’ seats in the Duma were
crowded yesterday, some time before the proceedings began at 2 p.m. The
Ministers’ bench was occupied. There was a feeling of suspense and
repressed excitement in the air. While the Prime Minister was reading
his declaration the silence was breathless. One felt that a year ago the
declaration would have seemed an excellent one for an autocratic
Government to have made. But now, as the expression of the views of a
Constitutional Ministry, it was like a slap in the face. One wondered,
if these were the views of the Government, why it had taken the trouble
to convene a Parliament. Ever since I have been here I have always
derived one and the same impression from Government and Conservative
circles: that they do not seem to reflect that it follows, if you
convene a Parliament, that the result must be Parliamentary government.
Their ideal seems to be Parliamentary institutions and autocratic
Government. So far, all attempts that have been made in the history of
the world to reconcile these two irreconcilable things have met with
failure. In no wise discouraged by the example of the past, the Russian
Government has made a further attempt in this direction. It is to be
feared that it will be grievously disappointed, judging from the
reception with which the Ministerial declaration was met yesterday
afternoon.

M. Nabokov spoke first. He spoke clearly and calmly, without rhetoric or
emphasis, and gave expression to the universal feeling of bitter
disappointment. He was listened to in silence until he reached the
question of amnesty, and then, when he said that the House considered
this question to be one between itself and the Crown, and did not admit
the interference or mediation of any third party with regard to it, the
pent-up excitement of the House found release in tumultuous and
prolonged applause. Likewise when he said that the House regarded the
declaration of the Ministry as a direct challenge of defiance, and that
they accepted the challenge, he could not continue for some time owing
to the applause and the cheering. It was admitted on all sides that M.
Nabokov’s speech was dignified and masterly, and expressed what
everybody felt. He was followed by M. Rodichev, who indulged in
elaborate and effective rhetoric. Too elaborate and too rhetorical, some
people said; psychologically, however, I think it was wise to let M.
Rodichev’s tempestuous rhetoric follow immediately after M. Nabokov’s
cool decisiveness; because when a body of people finds itself in a
tumultuous frame of mind, the tumult must find expression. M. Rodichev’s
speech reads exceedingly well; and judging by its result it was
successful. M. Anikin spoke for the peasants, and M. Aladin gave vent to
the feelings of the more violent members of the House. As an orator, he
made a grave mistake in pitching his key too high; he began at the top
of the pitch, so that when he wished to make a crescendo he overstepped
the limit, and the whole house cried out “Enough! Enough!” After some
moments of disorder he was allowed to finish his speech. The general
impression was that he had gone too far. He would be twenty times as
effective as an orator if he would curb his passion. The _Novoe Vremya_
remarks to-day that it is said that M. Aladin’s oratory is considered to
be English in style. M. Aladin has spent eight years in England.

The most successful speech of the day, judging from its reception, was
that of Professor Kovolievski, who pointed out that for the Government
to speak of the impossibility of expropriation was an insult to the
Emperor Alexander II., who had carried out the biggest act of
expropriation the world had ever seen. His speech was at the same time
extremely sensible and passionately eloquent. He said, like Mirabeau of
yore, that the Duma would not go until it was turned out by force, and
that in reminding the House that an act of amnesty was the prerogative
of the Crown, the Ministry were, as a constitutional body, offending the
Monarch by giving the impression that should no amnesty be given it was
the Emperor’s will, and that therefore not they, but the Emperor should
insist on their resignation. The House adjourned at 7.30, after having
passed their momentous vote of censure.

The situation is, therefore, now an impossible one. Matters have come to
a complete deadlock. The Emperor has promised by his Manifesto of
October 17th, and has ratified his promise in his Speech from the
Throne, that no laws shall be passed without the consent of the Duma.
The Government has made a declaration that it will take legislation into
its own hands, and the Duma has replied by demanding its immediate
resignation. Therefore, the Government will pass none of the Duma’s
laws, and the Duma will have nothing to do with the laws proposed by the
Government. What can be the way out of this situation? The Government
does not believe that the Duma is representative of Russia. The Duma
believes that it is representative. The Government, I suppose, relies on
the troops. They say the troops can be depended on for another two
years.

ST. PETERSBURG, _May 28th_.

The following is the translation of a speech made by a peasant deputy
named Losev in the Duma on Saturday last. It was the speech which was
certainly the most appreciated by the peasants:—

“Until to-day I was moved by a feeling of deep joy. I thought that the
moment had come when the resurrection day of our tired-out country would
dawn. I thought that the voice of our distressful country would sound
throughout the land, and would reach the ears of our Monarch. He had
said in his graciousness that it was necessary to learn the needs of the
country. I have the good fortune to be a representative of the people.
Until to-day my heart felt joy. Now, I thought, we shall do without that
hour of ruin which threatens the whole country; now, I thought, has come
the happy time when the worn-out and suffering eyes of the peasant shall
smile through his tears, the time which shall see the bettering of his
country and of his life, when he shall no longer fear the threats of a
Police Government, when he shall no longer live in poverty and famine.
But now I will say that my joy was not of long duration. To-day it
disappeared. To-day from this tribune I heard the terrible words
pronounced by the Prime Minister. In clear and brief words he said that
the solution of the land question proposed by the Duma was altogether
out of the question. What did the Prime Minister pronounce to be out of
the question? The contentment of the starving country? It is that
Ministry in whose hands we are like dumb animals. And that offended me
deeply, and I think that not I alone, but the whole country, was
offended.

“I was glad when I heard the answer to the speech of our Sovereign the
Emperor from the Throne about the resurrection of the country. But I
repeat that my joy lasted only until to-day. To-day, my dears, I again
look upon our distressful country. She is once more threatened by a
menacing cloud of gold uniforms. We see that a whole population, a
hundred millions strong, lies under the yoke of a few individuals and
can do nothing. Many express their sympathy for us on paper, but nobody
can help us. They tell us that the fulfilment of our demands is
impossible. I again put myself in the company of the poor peasantry,
who, it is true, possess great strength. One can liken the peasantry to
Samson, who possessed exceeding strength. By cunning they discovered
what was the secret of his strength, and bereft him of it. They took us,
too, by cunning, and by cunning they blinded us. I once more repeat
therefore that it is a duty not to play tricks with a people a hundred
million strong. When Samson felt the power of all the mockery of the
Philistines he then said: ‘Lead me; let me uphold the columns which
support the building,’ and, taking hold of one pillar with his right
hand and one with his left, he said: ‘Perish, my soul, together with the
Philistines!’ Who forced him to do this? If wicked Dalila had not
blinded him, and had his strength not been impaired, he would not have
wished to do this. They made a laughingstock of him, and he said:
‘Perish, my soul, together with the Philistines!’ And then what? Those
who played with him perished beneath the crashing building.

“All the labouring peasantry is in even such a critical situation. They
treat it like a toy; but, my friends, I cannot guarantee that the
unhappy Samson will support it. He will say: ‘Perish, my soul, with the
Philistines!’”

THE COMPOSITION OF THE DUMA

_June 20th._

There are in the Duma thirty-five so-called “Moderates,” a hundred and
seventy-six Cadets, eighty-one belonging to no party (mostly peasants,
with one or two independent gentlemen), about a hundred and twenty
belonging to the Extreme Left, who now call themselves the Labour Party.
Besides these there are the Autonomists, consisting of twenty-six Poles,
six Lithuanians, four Esthonians, four Letts, two Ukraine, and ten
Musalmans. If we look into these parties we see that the most prominent
members of the Moderates are Count Heyden, a Constitutional Monarchist,
who corresponds more or less to an English Whig, and has all his life
played a prominent part in the Liberal movement, and especially in the
Zemstvo meetings last year, and M. A. Stachovitch, also a Constitutional
Monarchist, a member of the noblesse and a prominent Zemstvoist and
champion of the Liberal movement.

Besides these two there are prominent men such as Prince Volkonsky, also
a Constitutional Monarchist.

When people ask whether these men are capable of managing State affairs,
the question seems to me to be rather this: Are they less or more
capable of managing affairs than a man like M. Durnovo?

One of the most prominent members of the October Party is M. D. Schipov,
who was not elected to the Duma—a Zemstvoist of great capacity.

Now let us look at the Cadets. The practical leader of the party is
Professor Milioukov, the President of the Union of Unions—the founder of
the party which he still directs. The Government excluded him from the
elections. But although he is not in the Duma, he is a man of
first-class ability, practical and moderate; he possesses a complete
grasp of the political situation. His colleague, M. Hessen, a lawyer of
great ability, was also excluded from the elections.

In the Duma itself we have M. C. A. Muromtseff: Educated at Moscow and
Göttingen, a professor of law, he was obliged to abandon his
professorship in 1864 and take to private practice. He is now the
President of the Duma, and there is not a dissentient voice in Russia,
from the Court downwards, as to the superlative manner in which he
fulfils his functions. He combines suave urbanity with rigid firmness,
and has at present a complete hold over the Duma. M. I. Petrunkevitch:
“The father of the Zemstvo,” a strong Constitutionalist; one of the best
speakers in Duma, in my opinion the best, and master of dry sarcasm. He
corresponds to an English Liberal member of the House of Commons. M. F.
F. Kokoshkin: A privatdocent of Moscow University, a Constitutional
expert. His speeches are well composed and reasoned. M. V. D. Nabokov:
Son of an ex-Minister of Justice; an expert in criminal law. He was
dismissed from being _Kammerjunker_ for his opinions. He is an excellent
Parliamentary tactician and a good, clear speaker. M. F. I. Rodichev: A
barrister, of Iver; one of the most prominent Zemstvoists; he presented
to the Emperor the famous address of the Zemstva at the beginning of the
reign asking for reforms, and received in answer the command to put away
these senseless dreams. He was forbidden to live in St. Petersburg for
two years. A rhetorical speaker, rather like a rocket, sometimes
bursting into stars, at others falling flat like a stick. M. L.
Petrajitski: Professor of the Philosophy of Law. A lawyer and a writer.
He speaks the soundest common sense; the temptation to listen to him can
be resisted easily. M. Hertzenstein: A Russianised Jew. Privatdocent of
Moscow University; took his degree in law; and was employed in the
Moscow Agrarian Bank. An expert on financial and agrarian questions.
M.N. Kareev: A prominent historian. M. Vinaver: An authority on civil
law. M. N. N. Lvov: Educated in Switzerland, and took his degree in
jurisprudence; a Zemstvoist and a large landed proprietor. Prince
Dolgoroukov: The bearer of a historic name. These are, I think, the most
prominent of the Cadets.

Together with the Cadets there is another small party who vote with the
Cadets, called the Party of Democratic Reform; it contains two of the
most capable men of the Duma. Professor Kovolievski: A scholar and an
unrivalled authority on Parliamentary traditions. An eloquent speaker,
who by the charm of his personality has become the most popular member
of the Duma. M. B. V. Kousmin Karavaieff: A Zemstvoist, educated at the
Academy of Military Law, at which he afterwards became a professor,
until he was obliged to resign in 1904. At the request of General
Kouropatkin he went to the war, where he held a responsible position; he
is one of the best, if not the best, speaker in the Duma; quiet,
persuasive, logical, and eloquent. Prince Urussoff, formerly employed in
the Ministry of the Interior, also belongs to this party.

On the left is the Labour Party. M. Anikin: A village teacher; a social
revolutionary, opposed to violence; he speaks eloquently. The abilities
of this party seem to me entirely destructive and in no way
constructive. M. Zhilkin: A peasant by extraction; subsequently a
journalist; a tall man with big features, light hair, and spectacles.
The tactical leader of his group. He speaks well and clearly. M. Aladin:
Of peasant extraction, but educated at the University of Kazan, who
emigrated to England. A violent and talented speaker; too violent to
have influence in the Duma. His speeches are sometimes interrupted by
cries of “Enough.” One of the most interesting revolutionary figures.

The peasants either belong to no party at all or to the Labour Party.
Those who belong to no party consider the Labour Party to be foolish.
One of them said to me that they were anxious to meet the proprietors
halfway, but the Government thwarted them by being so uncompromising. A
great many of these peasants are exceedingly sensible. The Labour Party
is utterly and fundamentally opposed to the Cadets, whom it despises.
The situation of the Duma as regards the Government, by which it is
practically ignored, continues to be abnormal; for this reason, and
owing to the fact that any active move on the part of the Government
unites the whole Duma in unanimity against it, the creation of further
parties is rendered difficult. The level of speaking in the Duma is
high; a competent English Judge here says it is considerably higher than
the English level. Time has certainly been wasted in talk; but the
Right, and neither the Cadets nor the Labour Party, have been to blame
for this, and also the abnormal situation of the Duma.

As to the current of opinion outside the Duma. The attitude of the
Government, that the Duma is merely a revolutionary meeting from which
nothing serious can be expected, is reflected in Conservative circles
with this difference: that, while holding this opinion, they blame the
Government for its action. Analogies with past history may be
misleading, but, however different the revolutionary element here may be
from that which made the French Revolution, the Conservative element
here is startlingly like the Conservative element in France in 1789.

Professor Aulard writes as follows about Louis XVI.: “Ce n’était pas un
esprit supérieur. Les royalistes le disaient bête, parce qu’ils le
voyaient physiquement épais ... dormeur, mangeur, ... mais il ne
manquait pas d’intelligence, et sa proclamation aux Français, qui est
bien son œuvre personnelle, offre une critique de la Constitution de
1791 beaucoup plus fine que celle que, de nos jours, Taine en a écrite.
Voici en quoi son intelligence fut inférieure à sa tâche: c’est qu’il ne
comprit pas qu’avec le système nouveau et le droit populaire, il pouvait
être un roi tout aussi puissant, tout aussi glorieux, tout aussi roi,
qu’avec le système ancien et le droit divin.”

This last sentence explains the whole attitude of the Conservatives
here. They do not understand that if you have constitutional
institutions you must have a constitutional Government. A man who calls
himself a Monarchical Liberal said to me the other day that the Duma did
not represent the majority of Russians, who were moderate, and that the
elections were to blame because the Government had not taken the
necessary steps to influence them in the right direction, as was always
done in other countries, including England. This view, which is largely
shared here, revealed to me the truth of what some one else said to me
not long ago: that Russians of the upper classes here are often more
cultivated than the upper classes of other countries; but they have no
more idea of the nature of constitutional government than the Turks.

On the other hand you have the revolutionaries outside the Duma, who
have no real notion of constitutional government either, attacking the
Cadets with unbridled violence every day, because they say that they are
the only bulwark against revolution. Therefore between these two dismal
extremes we have only the Cadets; capable and well organised it is true;
the question is, How long can they remain masters of such a situation?

_June 2nd._

To-night I had a long talk with M. Aladin, the Radical deputy. He gives
me a totally different impression from the usual Russian “Intelligent.”
He has been Anglicised. I don’t mean to say this has made him superior
to his countrymen, but it has made him different. He complained of the
want of practical energy among the Russians. They had not got, he said,
enough to satisfy an English child.

A friend was sitting with him—a musician, and at one moment they
compared pistols, when the musician began gesticulating with a revolver.
I felt nervous because Russians are so careless with firearms. M. Aladin
said that in England there were precedents and prejudices about
everything; here they were fighting in order to establish their
precedents and their prejudices.

I asked him whether, since he knew England well, he thought political
liberty was really a great advantage, and whether the great _liberté de
mœurs_ enjoyed by Russians did not compensate for the _habeas corpus_.
He said he wasn’t certain whether political liberty was worth having,
but he was convinced it was worth fighting for.

Nobody can possibly accuse this man either of talking nonsense or of
being a _doctrinaire_, but he seems to me a square peg in a round hole,
as Kislitzki was in the war.

He does not seem to evaporate in talk. His manner is mild, almost
gentle, and you at once feel he has unlimited energy. That is to say, he
is just the opposite of the ordinary “Intelligent” revolutionary, who is
all words and no deeds.

CHAPTER XX
CURRENT IDEAS ON THE DUMA

ST. PETERSBURG, _June 3rd_.

“The Duma is impossible,” said the Frenchman.

“In what country of the world are people who commit murder amnestied?
And the land question—violent measures such as the Cadets propose will
ruin the country. Agrarian reforms can only be gradual.”

A young man who had lately joined the Cadet party started to his feet.
“You forget,” he said, “that we are in the midst of a Revolution; that
it is not a question of what other countries do in times of peace and
prosperity. What is called amnesty here is called justice in other
countries, and as for doing things gradually, it is too late. The
Ministers come to the Duma and speak of gradual reform. It is like
telling a person who has got appendicitis to go to the Riviera and enjoy
the sunshine. Matters have been brought to such a pass that a drastic
remedy is imperative. The very people who preach to us now that
prevention is better than cure are those who during fifty years refused
to prevent.”

“As for the amnesty question,” said the man who belonged to no Party, “I
refuse to discuss it. Both sides tire me with it. You,” he said, turning
to the Cadet, “with your hysterical bomb-throwers, and you,” turning to
the mild Conservative landlord, “with your bungling police. The question
of amnesty is absurd, because very few criminals are in prison at all.
The bomb-throwers nearly always either get killed or escape altogether.
The mass of people who are in prison are there by chance. They might be
in the Duma; it is a mere fluke. At Tambov the other day a clerk whom I
know of went to take steps about the raising of his wages. He was
arrested, together with the man who drove him, and the son of that man.
They have been in prison ever since. No sort of accusation has been
brought against them.”

“And don’t you call that a disgraceful state of things?” said the young
Cadet.

“I was thinking of the amnesty as it affects the Government,” answered
the man who belonged to no Party, “and I repeat that as far as danger
goes it makes no difference one way or the other.”

“But as a question of principle it is impossible,” said the Frenchman.

“Yes, impossible not to give it,” said the Cadet.

“What do you think of the Cadets?” said the man who belonged to no Party
to the ex-official who belonged to the landed gentry. “I could not vote
for them or against them,” he answered. “I feel with regard to them
exactly as I feel with regard to the Japanese; the same combination of
admiration and disgust. I feel humiliated at recognising myself to be
their inferior, and proud at being in some respects their superior. I
believe that there is the same difference between myself and a Cadet as
there is between a Mandarin and a Japanese. Perhaps the social value of
Chinese philosophy in not incomparable to the French Eighteenth Century
strain, which is still so strong in us. At any rate, going back to the
Cadets and the Japanese, don’t you see a likeness between the faculty of
organisation that both of them possess, the grasp of technical means,
the near-sighted enthusiasm? Parallels between the _ci-devant_ Russian
and the Chinese have been worn threadbare. But now we are face to face
with the extraordinary situation of having, as it were, Japanese and
Chinamen in the same country struggling for prevalence. This is why I
could neither vote for the Cadets nor against them. I feel that they are
a superior and at the same time an inferior race, to whom one must leave
the dirty business of governing the country just as the Merovingian
Kings did with the Mayors of the Palace, reserving to themselves the
faculty of healing scrofula and the divine right of remaining Kings.”

“I don’t feel that,” said the man who belonged to no Party; “the
difference between us and all Europeans and the Japanese seems to me to
be a difference of kind; they are as different from us as bees are
different from men. The difference between you and the Cadets is merely
a difference of class and of education.”

“I could get on perfectly well with the Cadets,” said the ex-official,
“just as I could get on with the clerks who used to be in my office. If
I were the Emperor I would prefer a Cadet Government to a Conservative
one. But, for their weal or woe, Russia is not Cadet. The Cadets can
reform Russia if they choose just as the Japanese can reform China. But
just as the Japanese will never make the Chinaman Japanese in character,
so the Cadets will never make Russia Cadet.”

“I don’t agree with you,” said the Cadet. “The same argument might have
been used by an _Intendant_ at the beginning of the French Revolution
with regard to the Tiers État. They no doubt said then that the Tiers
État represented nothing, because it had not been allowed to represent
anything up to that moment. The same thing is true here. The Tiers État
has been suppressed politically, and owing to this suppression it has
burst out. It is far bigger than you think, because all your minor
mandarins and some of your major mandarins belong to it and form part of
it. Only yesterday I heard a reactionary complaining bitterly that all
the officials in St. Petersburg sympathised with the Cadets, which was
scandalous considering that they received Government wages. Besides
this, the Cadets include all the intellect of the country and all the
most intelligent men. They have partisans drawn from every class.”

“I disagree with you,” said the man who belonged to no Party to the
ex-official, “on different grounds. I believe the Cadets to be just as
Russian as you are, in the sense of being different from mere
Westerners. The other day a charming old Cadet gentleman whom I know had
some friends to dinner. They began playing _windt_ at nine o’clock in
the evening and they went on playing until eleven o’clock the next
morning without stopping. In what other country would that happen?
Certainly not in England or in France.”

“Grattez le Cadet et vous trouverez le Russe,” answered the ex-official.
“Perhaps if you scratch the Japanese you will get at the Chinaman.”

“Surely not,” said the man who belonged to no Party; “but apart from
this the antagonism between officialdom and the Tiers État is not a
thing exclusively Russian. It has happened in every country. The end of
the struggle is that officialdom or lawlessness is put under control.
That is what is happening here. Peter the Great was the first Cadet,
only he was self-sufficient and had need of no Party.”

ST. PETERSBURG, _June 9th_.

There is a current of opinion which is hostile to the Duma, and I have
lately had the opportunity of seeing manifestations of it. The views of
the Ministry have now been made plain to us and need no comment; but one
of the ideas which form the basis of their attitude and their action is
suggestive, namely, that Count Witte is entirely responsible for the
present state of things, in not having introduced universal suffrage,
which, if it had been applied during the elections, say the Ministers,
would have produced a majority in the Duma infinitely less Radical than
the present one. I cannot help feeling slightly amused when I hear this
catchword solemnly repeated, because when I was here before the
elections at Christmas time, the same people who repeat it used equally
solemnly to explain to me then the utter impossibility and the terrible
danger of universal suffrage. Personally, I am convinced that whatever
the system of suffrage had been, the majority would have been Radical,
because the majority of the country is Radical. That is to say, there is
in the country a large majority of discontented people. Nobody, I think,
can refute this proposition. It was confirmed to me the other day by an
intelligent Conservative. When I say Conservative, I mean that he
belongs to none of the Liberal parties. He explained his point of view
to me thus: “I dislike the Cadets,” he said; “they inspire me with a
profound antipathy; I think they have played a double game in their
dealings with the Left; I think they drew a line to the Right, and none
to the Left; that they promised more than they could give. They said
more in their propaganda than they now say in the Duma. On the other
hand, we have nothing better than them. Besides them we have only the
Government, which is not worth mentioning, and the Extreme Left, which
is demented. Again, I think they really do contain the most intelligent
men we have got in Russia now—the best brains, the best workers, and the
best organisers—and I could only hope for a peaceful issue if the
Emperor were to support them. I consider them the sole bulwark against
Anarchy.”

I asked him what he thought of their attitude towards the land question.

“I don’t think the land question can be settled by any one project,” he
answered, “because the conditions are so different in various parts of
Russia. The Cadets talk of local committees and of the necessity of
expropriation in principle. I think what the peasants want is capital,
not land. When the agitation began my peasants came to me and asked for
five thousand dessiatines. I offered them one thousand, and then they
found that five hundred was all they could manage to cultivate. I think,
of course, that all the land which is rented should be expropriated, and
I think the folly of the Government in ignoring the question of the land
rented to the peasants was supreme. The Government thinks it can remedy
the present evils by drastic means, but they leave the cause of the
evils untouched, which is this: there is a mass of discontented people
in Russia, and as long as they remain discontented the disorder will
continue. There are some things which could be done at once to render
the peasants less discontented. They can be given rights if they cannot
be given land. They are now at the mercy of the local magistrate.”

The net result of this man’s opinion was that it is a choice of evils,
and the Cadets are the lesser evil. Yesterday I had a talk with a man
who bitterly attacked the Cadets and all their ways. He was a member of
the Duma and belongs to the Left. He spoke in this strain: “The Cadets
insist on acting legally. It is sheer cowardice. In times of revolution
the only effective action is illegal action. The Cadets have no right to
call themselves the Party of the freedom of the people. They are nothing
but Moderate Liberals.”

“But what do you think they ought to have done?” I asked. “When the
Government refuses to consider our Bills,” he answered, “except
according to a process and after a space of time which they determine,
we ought to pass them in defiance of the Ministry and let them dissolve
us.”

“But, supposing they don’t dissolve you?” I asked. I don’t know what his
answer was, because this conversation took place in the lobby of the
Duma, and the spokesman, who was a Cossack member (not a man with a
shock of hair and golden sequins or silver braid on his coat, but a
pale, thin, short man, with large bright eyes and no collar), had such a
fiery and emphatic delivery that a large crowd collected round us, and
one of the crowd entered with him into a heated argument, of which I
heard fragments. “We have done nothing,” he said. “We have been here a
month and talked.” “What else could we do?” said his interlocutor; “the
Government take no notice of us.” “We ought to declare ourselves a
Constituent Assembly. The people of St. Petersburg are like ducks who
have been fired at. They are afraid of the sight of blood. But the
Government needn’t think they have got the best of us, not those silly
little gramophones (this to his interlocutor) who repeat what the Cadets
say, but us, the representatives of the people; we shall have a nice
surprise for them. We have got terrible means at our disposal without
even appealing to the people. That’s the worst of us Russians: we know
how to talk, how to write; they translate our books into foreign
languages; but we don’t know how to act. I mean the educated Russians,
the Cadets; but we are going to show that we do know how to act. Every
day for the last month I have acted in a certain direction.”

The rest of the philippic was lost to me. One of the arguers, who had
just joined the Cadet Party, and being a young official was frightfully
proud of the fact, seemed somewhat mortified at being called a “little
gramophone.” The temper of the Duma, although its outward behaviour is
decorous, seems to be rising in temperature. The majority is in favour
of moderation, and at present the majority is powerful. The Government
has been treating the Duma like a spoilt child which needs humouring.

CHAPTER XXI
THE BEGINNING OF DISORDER

ST. PETERSBURG, _June 16th_.

There can be no doubt that the political atmosphere has in the last two
days become sultry. The tension of feeling in the Duma has ominously
increased, and the feeling of the country has manifested itself in
increasing disorders. Even among the troops mutinies have been reported
from five different towns, and the sailors at the various ports are said
to be in a dangerously excited state. It is now little more than a month
since the Duma met, and by looking back one can judge to a certain
degree of the effect its existence has had on the nation at large. Some
people say the Duma has done nothing but talk. It seems to me it would
be rather difficult for a Parliament, especially a new one, to pass
measures of a complicated and important nature in dumb show. Even the
House of Commons, after centuries of experience, has not arrived at
this. There are four Bills in committee at this moment. The agrarian
question is, it is true, being discussed at length before the committee
has drafted the Bill. But it should be borne in mind that the situation
of the present Duma is abnormal. It proposes to elaborate measures based
on certain principles which the Government have declared to be
inadmissible.

The Government morally deny the existence of the Duma. A Minister goes
so far as to request a newspaper correspondent to state in the
influential organ he represents that the Parliament which has been
summoned by his Sovereign is no better than a revolutionary meeting, and
that it is the result of the revolutionary machinations of his immediate
predecessor in office. Besides this, the official organ of the
Government publishes telegrams—which, even if they are not (as there is
strong reason to suppose) manufactured in St. Petersburg or written to
order by willing officials, can only be representative of a small
fraction of popular opinion—inciting the population against the Duma,
and begging the Emperor to dissolve it. When one reads these telegrams
one is convinced that they cannot represent a widely-spread opinion, for
they run somewhat after this fashion: “Great, unlimited autocrat, listen
to us true Russians, dissolve the herd of rebels, who by means of Jewish
money have usurped the position of representatives of the people. Pay no
attention to their seditious cries, but listen rather to us, whose only
wish is that thy Heaven-given, anointed, unlimited, multitudinous,
incarnadined autocratitude should remain unlimited. Give us less bread
and more taxes. We are perfectly contented. We have everything our heart
desires, so long as thou remainest unlimited.”

If the British Cabinet were to circulate among the Army an invitation to
destroy the House of Commons, full of insulting strictures on the
members of the House, we should not consider this action to be
constitutional. But this is what the Russian Government has been doing
during the last month. The situation of a Parliament which has to deal
with such a Ministry is abnormal. What guarantee is there that the
Ministry will not dissolve it at any minute and change the electoral
law? Not, certainly, the fact that this would be illegal and
unconstitutional. Therefore, on these grounds, and in these
circumstances, it seems to me that the action of the members of the
Duma, in insisting on having their “say out” on the land question before
anything else happens, is not so needless and not such a waste of time
as it at first appears to be. The speeches of the members are reported
in full, published in the newspapers, and read all over the country, and
therefore if the Duma is dissolved suddenly the country will be already
acquainted with the opinions and intentions of the Duma on the land
question. This is why the fact that the Duma has existed and spoken out
during a month is in itself one of paramount importance and likely to be
big with far-reaching results. When the Duma met the Russian people
echoed the French poet’s cry that “une grande espérance a traversé le
monde,” but they were doubtful as to its efficacy. Now that it has met
during a whole month, and that people within its walls have really been
able to speak their minds on burning topics without being arrested, and
have in no uncertain tones expressed their opinion of the present
Government, the effect has been enormous.

Last night I was driven home by a cabman who favoured me with his
political views. I attach far more importance to the views of any cabman
in St. Petersburg than to those of any of the Ministers, because they
are more intimately acquainted with popular opinion. The cabman first
expressed his appreciation of the fact that some people in Russia had
too much land and others too little. Count Ignatieff’s estate, he said,
was a hundred versts long, and he had eight estates. The Duma, he
continued, was demanding land and liberty. I objected that the Duma
might be dissolved. “They won’t dare,” he replied. “But if they do
dare?” I said. “Then we shall kill them,” he answered. “Kill whom?”
“Why, all the rich.” “But will the soldiers be on your side?” I asked.
“The soldiers are peasants, too,” he said. “But before they shot at the
people,” I said. “Before they did not understand what it was all about.
Now they know,” he said. “Go into any _tractir_ (public-house) you
like,” he continued, “and you will hear how the people are screaming.”

Some weeks ago a change in the spirit of the Army, owing to the
existence of the Duma, was not improbable. It appears to be now on the
way towards realisation. Some of the Guards regiments are said, on the
other hand, to be highly incensed against the Duma. One of the peasant
members told me that his brother, who is in a regiment here, informed
him that the strictest surveillance was being exercised on the movements
and on the correspondence of the soldiers. He said some of the regiments
in St. Petersburg would be for the Duma, but only the minority. I think
it must be difficult for people who have never been here, either in the
past or in the present, to realise that although the old _régime_ has
not yet been destroyed there is an enormous difference in the general
state of things owing to the fact that up to last year the expression of
public opinion was impossible, and that now it is not only re-echoed
under the protection of the Duma all over Russia but finds a vehicle in
innumerable newspapers and pamphlets, not one of which is without what
the Germans call a “Tendenz.” Every bit of fiction, verse, satire,
history, anecdote that is now published is definitely and purposely
revolutionary. The non-political part of every newspaper is therefore
practically devoted to politics. Every day, and twice a day, the same
string is sounded. Everything in Russia now is tinged with one colour,
and that colour is bright red.

_June 14th._

In the following dialogue I have tried to formulate the views of those
who have no sympathy with the Liberal movement in Russia:—

“I would prefer to hold my tongue,” said the cosmopolitan philosopher
who had just arrived at St. Petersburg, when he was asked for his
opinion on the political situation. “I do not want to have chairs thrown
at my head.”

“We never throw chairs,” said the ex-official. “Either bombs or nothing.
But before you say it I know what you are going to say. There are two
classes of people in the world: Liberals and Conservatives, if you like,
and there is also a third class. The third class consists of what I call
recalcitrant Liberals; they become Conservative not because they are
Conservative by nature but because they dislike Liberals and enjoy
disagreeing with them; but say what you think and confirm the truth of
my diagnosis.” “I will,” said the philosopher, “only don’t throw chairs
at my head. All that is going on in Europe at present seems to me to be
contained in the formula: Liberty is the tyranny of the rabble. The
equation may work itself out more or less quickly, but it is bound to
triumph. And as intelligent people favour liberty I have gone over to
the side of the idiots. They produced an opéra-bouffe in 1870, I think,
called ‘Le trône d’Écosse, ou la difficulté de s’asseoir dessus.’ The
title was pleasing, but the figure of the King of Scotland was more
delightful still. He was, I will not say troubled, for it did not
inconvenience him in the least, but let us say characterised, by
softening of the brain in an advanced stage, and whatever might be going
on he quietly slept through it, only waking up now and then to exclaim
emphatically ‘Pas de concessions!’ I entirely sympathise with him. I
feel exactly like the King of Scotland, and I don’t care a straw whether
I am right or wrong. Right or wrong concerns our judging faculty, which
is a poor affair at its best, if it concerns anything at all. Siding in
practice with one party or another concerns our passions, our habits,
our tastes, and our private interests. If we have privileges we are
there to defend them and not to bother, like clergymen and professors,
whether they are right or wrong. We may be beaten; at least let us be
beaten fighting. Vive la réaction!” “That is a point of view I can
understand,” said the man who belonged to no Party, “but let us ask our
friend (he pointed to the ex-official) who, although often accused by
his friends of having regicide principles, has never been insulted by
being called a Liberal, whether he feels like that with regard to Russia
now.” “Yes,” answered the philosopher, “please tell me if you think my
formula applies to the present situation, and whether you agree?” “Let
me start by saying that I entirely agree with your formula,” said the
ex-official; “at least I did until a fortnight ago, when I realised (I
was staying at the Savoy Hotel in London) that I had become (like Kips
at the Grand Hotel) a Socialist. My conversion, however, is so recent
and I have spent so many years in deriding Socialism that I can, without
any difficulty, speak from my ancient standpoint. Well, I think your
formula, with which I so deeply sympathise, is not applicable to Russia
at present. At least it is applicable, if you choose to apply it, but it
is as far removed from what I feel as the diametrically opposed view of
the English Liberal Press. I do not regard the existing struggle as
being one between aristocratic and democratic principles. It is the
struggle between one half of the middle class, the Mandarins, with the
Government and the higher Mandarins at their head, and the other half,
the professors, the doctors, the lawyers. Above this struggle the
aristocracy floats as a nebulous mist, like the gods when they returned
to the Twilight of Valhalla, and beneath it the proletariate and the
peasantry have been roused from their slumbers by the noise of the
fight. My point of view is very simple. I believe, as a statesman once
said, that the Russian Government is an autocracy tempered by
assassination. I hope that the professors will, with the help of the
peasantry and the proletariate, create a big enough disturbance to
destroy the existing Government and prepare the way for a real
autocracy. Then, and not until then, I shall cry ‘Vive la réaction!’
According to you I ought to die fighting for my higher Mandarins; but
you admit it is only a question of one’s passions; well, my passions are
turned against them. I hate them. Of course I would have fought for
Louis XVIII. or Charles II.; but I should have drawn the line at Charles
X., and I should have been rewarded by the result of the subsequent
revolution.” “I don’t think you either of you realise,” said the man who
belonged to no Party, “that just as the battle of Valmy (which didn’t
seem very important to contemporaries except to Goethe, who realised
what had happened in a flash) was the beginning of a new age, so was the
universal strike here in October last the beginning of another. I think
all your talk about autocrats, &c., is amusing, but so very
old-fashioned. I don’t think there will ever be such things—again.”

“But there are such things,” said the ex-official. “Mr. Balfour ruled
England far more despotically than the most unlimited autocrat.”

“Yes, but that is the kind of thing which I believe is on the eve of
disappearance,” said the man who belonged to no Party. “I believe, and
of course the wish is not only father to the thought—but I wish hard in
order that the thought may come true—I believe that we are on the eve of
a social revolution, and that besides this Russia will split up into
separate parts. I hope this will happen. Had I been an Englishman, I
should have been a little Englander with a vengeance. I should like to
go back to the Heptarchy. I admire the England of Shakespeare and Drake,
which was little, more than the England of Kipling and Rhodes, which is
big. I admire the Germany of Goethe and Beethoven more than the Germany
of William II.—and whom? There is no one else to mention. The same with
Russia. All that we have derived from ideals of expansion has ended in
disaster. If we split up, who knows what the Duchy of Transbaikalia and
the Kingdom of Kalouga, for instance, and the Republic of Morshansk may
not produce?” “But,” said the philosopher, “what will happen if the
power falls into the hands of angry demagogues of the Extreme Left? What
if they behave as the Convention behaved, and, more reasonably, what if
you have all the tyranny of a Convention and none of the terror? All the
inconvenience and none of the excitement? In Russia you boast of the
_liberté de mœurs_ you enjoy; don’t you think you run a risk of losing
it?” “It is true, of course,” said the man who belonged to no Party,
“that we run a risk of losing it, but I have a great faith in the
invincible plasticity of the Russian character. And liberty of manners
seems to me to depend on national characteristics and not on national
institutions. You can prove, of course, that liberty of manners and
liberty of thought flourish abundantly under autocratic _régimes_ such
as those of Nero and Nicholas II., but does it necessarily follow that
it cannot exist under lawful and disciplined administration? Ancient
Greece and Modern England are two cases in point where personal liberty
such as that which we enjoy in Russia is nonexistent. ‘Il ne faut pas
l’oublier,’ says Renan, ‘Athènes avait bel et bien l’inquisition.’ As to
Anglo-Saxon countries there is no more amusing spectacle in the world
than that which is offered to us when a member of the Slav race seeks
refuge in Anglo-Saxon countries burning with enthusiasm for the mothers
of freedom. Witness Maxim Gorky’s arrival in America. He soon finds out
that he is enclosed in a brick wall of prohibitions, and perhaps he
thinks with regret of his native country, where, although he was not
allowed to insult his Monarch at a public meeting, he could do exactly
what he liked. The rigidity of conventions in England seems to me to
arise from the English character, which is rigid and likes convention;
but the Russian character is not rigid; it is pliant and draws no line
anywhere. That is at once all its strength and all its weakness.
Whatever gets the upper hand in Russia, be it a convention, a board of
Socialists, or a committee of peasants, I am convinced of one thing,
that the members of this Government will never dress for dinner when
they feel disinclined or go to bed before they wish to do so.” “But,”
said the philosopher, “if you possess personal liberty why bother about
the rest? After all, free political institutions presuppose a certain
amount of order and discipline. If you are without this order and
discipline, and if you do not wish for the drawbacks of order and
discipline, why do you make a fuss to get what can only exist by order
and discipline?”

“If we had been properly governed,” said the ex-official, “nobody would
have thought about it.”

“The two things are not incompatible,” said the man who belonged to no
Party. “You can have free political institutions sufficiently ordered
and disciplined, and you can also have personal liberty. If these two
things have never been combined before, we will be the first people to
combine them.”

ST. PETERSBURG, _June 19th_.

On Sunday last I went by train to a place called Terrioki, in Finland,
where a meeting was to be held by the Labour Party of the Duma. The
train was crowded with people who looked more like holiday-makers than
political supporters of the Extreme Left—so crowded that one had to
stand up on the platform outside the carriage throughout the journey. It
is of no consequence in Russia how many people there are in a train or
what they do. In England there is an impressive warning in the railway
carriages about being fined a sum not exceeding forty shillings. In
Russia there is also a quantity of printed rules. The difference is
this—in England, if you infringed the rules, something would be sure to
happen. In Russia nobody pays the slightest attention to any rule and
nothing happens. You are not fined a sum not exceeding forty shillings;
on the other hand, a young man not long ago, owing to the habit he had
acquired—a habit universally practised by passengers on the line—of
jumping out of the train long before it had reached the station, slipped
on the step, and was nearly killed. This is a small instance of what
people mean when they allude to the personal liberty prevalent in
Russia. It is also an explanation of the existence of the quantity of
printed regulations you see in Russia. The authorities print a hundred
rules in the hope that one of them may meet with attention. None of them
commands attention. I will give another small instance. If a stranger to
Europe came to Europe and to England and tried to get into the House of
Commons without a ticket and without being acquainted with a member, he
would find it, I think, impossible to obtain admittance. If he went to
Russia he could, if he said nothing at all, walk into the Duma without
the slightest difficulty. The whole secret of avoiding bothers in Russia
is not to bother people who do not wish to be bothered. If you do what
you wish to do quietly nobody interferes with you. If you ask you will
probably be told it is impossible—it is in theory, but not in practice.

But to go back to the political meeting in Finland. After a journey of
an hour and a quarter we arrived at Terrioki. The crowd leapt from the
train and immediately unfurled red flags and sang the “Marseillaise.”
The crowd occupied the second line, and a policeman observed that, as
another train was coming in and would occupy that line, it would be
advisable if they were to move on. “What, police even here in free
Finland?” somebody cried. “The police are elected here by the people,”
was the pacifying reply, and the crowd moved on, formed into a
procession six abreast, and started marching to the gardens where the
meeting was to be held, singing the “Marseillaise” and other songs all
the way. The dust was so abundant that, after marching with the
procession for some time, I took a cab and told the driver to take me to
the meeting. We drove off at a brisk speed past innumerable wooden
houses, villas, shops (where Finnish knives and English tobacco are
sold) into a wood. After we had driven for twenty minutes I asked the
driver if we still had far to go. He turned round and, smiling, said in
pidgin-Russian (he was a Finn), “Me not know where you want go.” Then we
turned back, and, after a long search and much questioning of
passers-by, found the garden, into which one was admitted by ticket.
(Here, again, any one could get in.) In a large grassy and green garden,
shady with many trees, a kind of wooden semicircular proscenium had been
erected, and in one part of it was a low and exiguous platform not more
spacious than a table. On the proscenium the red flags were hung. In
front of the table there were a few benches, but the greater part of the
public stood and formed a large crowd. The inhabitants of the villas
were here in large numbers; there were not many workmen, but a number of
students and various other members of the “Intelligenzia”; young men
with undisciplined hair and young ladies in large _art nouveau_ hats and
_Reformkleider_. (I wonder whether this last mentioned garment has
penetrated to London.) M. Jilkin, the leader of the Labour Party in the
Duma, took the chair.

The meeting was opened by a man who laid stress on the necessity of a
Constituent Assembly. The speeches succeeded one another. Students
climbed up into the pine-trees and on the roof of the proscenium. Others
lay on the grass behind the crowd. “Land and Liberty” was the burden of
the speeches. There was nothing new or striking said. The hackneyed
commonplaces were rolled out one after another. Indignation, threats,
menaces, blood and thunder. And all the time the sun shone hotter and
“all Nature looked smiling and gay.” The audience applauded, but no
fierceness of invective, no torrent of rhetoric managed to make the
meeting a serious one. Nature is stronger than speeches, and sunshine
more potent than rant. It is true the audience were enjoying themselves;
but they were enjoying the outing, and the speeches were an agreeable
incidental accompaniment; they enjoyed the attacks on the powers that
be, as the Bank-holiday maker enjoys Aunt Sally at the seaside. Some
Finns spoke in Russian and Finnish, and then M. Aladin, the prominent
member of the Duma, made a real speech. As he rose he met with an
ovation. M. Aladin is of peasant extraction. He passed through the
University in Russia, emigrated to London, was a dock labourer, a
printer’s devil, a journalist, an electrical engineer, a teacher of
Russian; he speaks French and German perfectly, and English so well that
he speaks Russian with a London accent. M. Aladin has, as I have said, a
great contempt for the methods of the Russian revolutionaries, and he
expressed something of it on this occasion. He said that only people
without any stuff in them would demand a Constituent Assembly. “You
don’t demand a Constituent Assembly, you constitute it,” he said. “It
was humiliating,” he continued, “that citizens of a big country like
Russia should be obliged to come to Finland in order to speak their
minds freely. It was time to cease being a people of slaves, and time to
be a revolutionary people. The Russian people would never be free until
they showed by their acts that they meant to be free.” M. Aladin speaks
without any gesticulation. He is a dark, shortish man, with a small
moustache and grey serious eyes, short hair, and a great command of
incisive mordant language. His oratory is, as I have said before,
English in style. On this occasion it was particularly nervous and
pithy. He did not, however, succeed in turning that audience of
holiday-makers into a revolutionary meeting. The inhabitants of the
villas clapped. The young ladies in large hats chortled with delight. It
was a glorious picnic; an ecstatic game of Aunt Sally. And when the
interval came the public rushed to the restaurants. There was one on the
sea-shore, with a military band playing. There was a beach and a pier
and boats and bathers. Here was the true inwardness of the meeting. Many
people remained on the beach for the rest of the afternoon. The Social
Democrats who had been present were displeased with M. Aladin’s speech.
Groups formed in the garden. People lay down on the grass, and political
discussions were held by recumbent speakers. When they reached a certain
pitch of excitement they knelt.

Two men attracted my attention by the heated argument in which they were
engaged, kneeling opposite each other in a circle of recumbent
listeners. Presently a bell rang and the meeting was resumed. I said to
one of the arguers: “Why do you all quarrel so much? You are disunited,
and there is only one Government.” He took me aside and explained his
views. He was a tall, bearded, intelligent-looking man, a native of the
Urals; he had been a soldier and an engineer, and had had to leave the
country for his opinions. He had educated himself in France, Germany,
and Belgium, and had attended a Labour Congress in London. He was a
Social Democrat. He said this meeting was absurd. “You see the real
workmen can’t come to a meeting like this; it’s too expensive. I was
disappointed in Aladin’s speech. I think he is unfair in blaming us for
being feeble compared with the French revolutionaries. The circumstances
are different. We have the proletariate here, and that important fact
makes a great difference.” I asked him if he thought there would be a
social revolution in Russia. He said he thought Socialism must be
adopted by all countries at the same moment. He thought that the Russian
people were less capable of introducing it than any people. “When these
people talk the poverty of their thought appals me,” he said. “And then
the monotony of the tragic note—never a gleam of humour; never a touch
of irony. Count Heyden is the only man in the Duma who shows any signs
of it. Look at our Government, they lay themselves open to ridicule. By
ridicule one can pulverise them; nobody thinks of doing it, and the
strain of this long-drawn-out tragic emphasis is intolerable. Yes, I was
disappointed in Aladin. But the first time I saw him I was convinced
that he would play a part in the Russian Revolution. It is a good thing
that such men should be. Gapon, however much we may blame him, played a
great part.” I found he thoroughly disbelieved in the Cadets and
believed only in the proletariate. Later on other speeches were made
denouncing the Cadets and the foreign loan, and a resolution was passed
repudiating it. The meeting went on till past seven o’clock, and then
the mass of people returned to St. Petersburg, having thoroughly enjoyed
their picnic.

I went to the Duma yesterday afternoon and heard some of the speeches of
the much-abused Cadets. It was like listening to Mr. Asquith and Mr.
Haldane after a dose of Hyde Park oratory. But because people appear to
one to talk nonsense that is no proof that they will not get the upper
hand. “Vous êtes des verbiageurs,” said the Duc de Biron to the
revolutionary tribunal. They guillotined him nevertheless. And Danton
said that Robespierre was not capable “de faire cuire un œuf.” Yet
Robespierre played a part in the Revolution.

CHAPTER XXII
PRINCE URUSSOFF’S SPEECH

ST. PETERSBURG, _June 22nd_.

The speech made by Prince Urussoff last Friday in reply to the Minister
of the Interior is generally considered here to be the most important
utterance which has as yet been made within the walls of the Duma.
Prince Urussoff occupied for a short period a post in the Ministry of
the Interior during the late Ministry. His speech is not only important
from the fact of its being authoritative, and because it throws a
startlingly interesting light on some of the causes of the Jewish
massacres, but also because it reveals the evil which is practically at
the root of all the trouble in Russia.

“REPRESENTATIVES OF THE PEOPLE,—I rise to submit to your consideration a
few observations regarding the question put to the Ministry by the Duma
and the answer to that question which we have just heard. I presume that
we are considering the information respecting a printing-press concealed
in the recesses of the Police Department, by which proclamations to the
people are printed inciting them to civil war, not so much in the light
of a fact which belongs to the past and interests us only so far as the
responsibility of certain individuals is concerned, but rather in the
light of an alarming question as to a possibility of the further
participation of Government officials in the preparation of those
sanguinary tragedies for which we have been notorious during a dismal
epoch, and which, as the events of the last few days have shown,
continue to occur, to the indignation of all those to whom human life
and the fair fame of the Russian Empire are precious. Let me state at
the outset that I do not for a moment doubt of the sincerity of the
declaration made by the Minister of the Interior, and that the words
which I wish to say to you are not directed against the Ministry.

“On the contrary, the whole significance, the whole interest, the whole
importance of the question at issue lie precisely in the fact that
massacres and civil strife, owing to the circumstances now obtaining,
continue and will continue, quite independently of the action taken with
regard to them by one Minister of the Interior or another, or by one
Ministry or another. With regard to this point the declaration of the
Minister of the Interior does not seem to me convincing, and I will now
try to explain why, with this end in view, I must deal with the question
of the massacres, and try to unravel and explain the part played in them
by the printing-press which was the subject of our question.

“By a careful investigation of the massacres the enquirer is brought
face to face with certain definite and isolated phenomena. First, the
massacre is always preceded by reports of its preparation, accompanied
by the issue of inflammatory proclamations, which are uniform both as
regards subject-matter and style. Secondly, when the massacre occurs,
the facts which are officially stated to be its cause invariably prove
to be false. Thirdly, the action of those who take part in the massacre
reveals a certain organisation, which deprives it of all accidental and
elemental characteristics. Those who take part in the massacre act in
the consciousness of some right, in the consciousness of impunity, and
they only continue acting till this consciousness is shaken; when that
moment arrives the massacre ceases swiftly and easily. Further, in the
action of the police there is never any uniformity, and while certain
police districts are devastated by the massacres under the eyes of a
considerable constabulary force, others remain almost untouched owing to
the protection of the police, who perform their duties conscientiously
and energetically. Finally, when the massacre is over, arrests are made,
and the authorities who examine the culprits cannot help having the
impression that those who have been brought before them are less like
criminals than ignorant people who have been deceived by some definite
thing. Thus we feel that some kind of uniform and widely-planned
organisation exists. Those who affirm that it is simply the doing of the
Government, and think that the question is thereby settled, are
mistaken, but they are not wholly mistaken; and the events of the past
winter, which form the subject of our question, will help us to throw
some light on these dark proceedings. In January, 1905, a great quantity
of well-printed proclamations, which had been widely circulated in the
chief centres of Southern and Western Russia, together with alarming
complaints regarding the preparation of massacres in Vilna, Bielostok,
Kieff, &c., came into the hands of some one who occupied a subordinate
position in the Ministry of the Interior, and who was well known as an
enemy of massacres (I am not speaking of myself).

“The massacre at Homel in January confirmed the fears which had been
expressed, and spurred the above-mentioned individual to spare no
efforts to prevent further massacres, which he succeeded in doing owing
to the steps taken by the Prime Minister (Count Witte), who gradually
succeeded in discovering the working of the hidden organisation. It was
then that the following facts concerning the action of the
massacre-mongers came to light. A group of persons, forming the active
militia of our own ‘patriotic’ societies, working together with people
closely related to a certain newspaper (_The Moscow Gazette_) started an
active anti-revolutionary movement. Being ‘patriots’ in the sense
recently defined by the member for Tver and ‘full Russians,’ they
discovered the cause of the revolution to lie in the non-Russian races,
in the inhabitants of the outlying districts, and among the Jews. They
called on the Russian people, and especially the Russian soldiers, to
grapple with the rebels, in ten thousands of proclamations of the most
repulsive character. These proclamations were transmitted by members of
the society to the place of action, and handed over there to their local
allies, who in their turn distributed them with careful interpretations.
The consequences, judged from the point of view of those who were trying
to maintain central authority intact, were curious. The assistant of the
Chief of Police (I take an ordinary example) distributes the
proclamation without informing his chief. Or, for instance, the head of
the first police station would be confided in, but not the head of the
second. Special sums of money came into the possession of some of the
subordinates of the Gendarmerie; certain obscure persons began to visit
them; rumours circulated in the town of certain preparations; frightened
people sought the Governor. The Governor reassured them, feeling,
however, that the situation was far from reassuring. From the Ministry
came telegrams about measures to be taken, and measures were often
taken, but measures taken in this sense were far from inspiring
universal confidence.

“It happened that members of the police supposed in all good faith that
such measures were taken for show, for decency’s sake; but that they
knew the real object of the Government, they read between the lines, and
above the orders of the Governor they heard a voice from afar in which
they placed greater faith. In a word the result was incredible
confusion, utter disorganisation, and the complete demoralisation of
authority. In the meantime in St. Petersburg, so far back as the autumn
of 1905 (and it appears up to the time when the October Ministry took
office), in No. 16, Fontanka, in an out-of-the-way room of the
Department of Police, a printing-press was at work, bought at the
expense of the Department. An officer of the gendarmerie in mufti,
Komissaroff, worked the press, and with the help of a few assistants
prepared the proclamation. The secret of the existence of this
printing-press was so well kept, and the doings of its manager were so
cleverly concealed, that not only in the Ministry but even in the
Department of the Police, there were few people who knew of its
existence. In the meantime the work of the organisation, of which the
press was the instrument, was evidently successful; since Komissaroff,
in answer to some one who stumbled on it by chance and asked him a
question about the work, said: ‘We can arrange any massacre you like; a
massacre of ten or a massacre of ten thousand.’ Sir, this phrase is
historical (Sensation.) I can add that in Kiev a massacre of ten
thousand had been arranged to take place on February 3rd, but it was
successfully averted. (Great sensation.)

“The Prime Minister (Count Witte) had, it is said, a serious fit of
nervous asthma when these facts were communicated to him. He sent for
Komissaroff, who reported as to his actions and the authority which had
been given him, and in a few hours neither printing-press nor
proclamations were to be found in the Department, and that is why
nobody, not even the Minister of the Interior, will be able to satisfy
the wish of the Duma to learn the names of the men who created the
organisation, assured its members of immunity, acted like magic on the
police and other officials, and even managed to obtain promotion and
reward for the most active among them. I will now proceed to my
conclusions. My first is this: That the declaration of the Minister of
the Interior affords us no serious guarantee with regard to the
cessation of organisations which take part in the preparation of huge
massacres and draw Government officials into their sphere of action. It
is clear that the chief organisers and inspirers are outside the sphere
of the Government, and as far as their business is concerned it is
equally indifferent to them whether the Minister of the Interior will
observe a benevolent neutrality towards them or take a line of
opposition. Further, I affirm that no Ministry, even if it were chosen
from the Duma, could restore order in the country so long as certain
unknown persons who stand outside, behind an impassable barrier,
continue to lay their brutal fingers on certain parts of the machine of
State, disturbing its political balance with experiments on living
organisations, and performing a kind of political vivisection. My second
conclusion is still more melancholy—it concerns the Duma.

“Sirs, from all parts of Russia we have come hither not only with
complaints and indignation, but with a keen thirst for action, for
self-sacrifice and truth, with true patriotism. There are many among us
here whose income depends on their property, and have we heard from them
one word against compulsory expropriation of the land in the interests
of the working man? And is it not this very ‘revolutionary Duma’ which
from the first day of its activity up to the last few days has attempted
to raise the authority of the Crown, to place it above party strife and
above our errors, and to preserve it from the responsibility for those
errors? What sort of a Duma is necessary now that the hour of inevitable
reform has struck, if not such a one in which party interests and the
class-division have given way to the triumph of the union of the welfare
of the people and the welfare of the State? Nevertheless, we feel that
those dark forces are arming against us, and dividing us from the Crown,
and are preventing the Crown from having confidence in us. They will not
allow us to accomplish that union with the Crown which, according to the
law granting us a new order of things, is the indispensable condition
and the only pledge of the peaceful development of the life of our
country. Herein lies a great danger, and this danger will not disappear
so long as in the direction of affairs and in the fortunes of our
country we continue to feel the influence of men who have the education
of policemen and sergeants, and are massacre-mongers on principle.”

CHAPTER XXIII
NAZARENKO AND OTHER PEASANT MEMBERS

ST. PETERSBURG, _July 6th_.

After a week’s absence in England I returned to St. Petersburg to find
the situation much as I had left it, except that the tension has perhaps
imperceptibly grown greater. The main factors of the situation are
unchanged.

Rumours are current that a change of Ministry is probable, but it is
generally considered that the appointment of a Ministry chosen from the
Ministry itself is out of the question. One fact should be borne in mind
in considering the rumours with regard to the latest phase of Court
opinion and Government policy, namely, that there is probably no fixed
policy in those spheres; up to the present no such policy has been
perceptible, and what has been done one day has been countermanded and
contradicted the next. Therefore, as far as the Government and the Court
are concerned, all things are possible. One might apply to them a phrase
used by a French historian with regard to Louis XVI.: “Il n’eut que des
velléités, des répugnances. Il céda tour à tour, sans plan, sans dessein
quelconque, aux influences qui l’entouraient, à l’influence de la reine,
du Comte d’Artois, de Necker ... il vécut au jour le jour, disant oui,
disant non, selon que le conseiller du moment était plus importun et
plus pressant.” This is an exact definition of the policy manifested by
the Russian Government and Court combined during the last two years.

As far as the Duma is concerned, there is the same deadlock which has
existed ever since it met; the Duma insisting on the creation of
responsible Ministers, the Ministers admitting the existence of the Duma
in theory and denying it in practice. The tension of feeling in the Duma
itself is greater than when I left, although the debates of the last
three days have been fairly quiet. But it is a significant if not an
ominous fact that the Constitutional Democrats are now attacked by men
who have hitherto supported them on account of the mildness of their
tactics.

A week spent in England enabled me to realise to a certain extent what
is the English opinion with regard to Russian affairs. After one has
been in Russia for some time certain things become so familiar that one
takes for granted that they are too well known to mention. If one then
visits England one realizes that there is a great gulf of ignorance
between England and the elementary facts of the situation in Russia. I
think the principal thing which struck me in what I heard Englishmen say
about the Duma was that no sort of distinction was made among the
elements of which it is composed. It is generally supposed to be a body
exclusively consisting of violent Socialists. This is not the case;
although, owing to the abnormal situation created by the Duma being face
to face with a Ministry which does not seriously admit its existence, it
will at any moment be ready to show a unanimous front of opposition
towards the Government. The second thing which struck me was that people
in England judge affairs in Russia according to an English standard.
They forget that the conditions are different. The Russian Government,
in some of its unofficial utterances in the English Press, reminds us of
this fact when it wishes to lay stress on the opinion that the Duma is
not a Parliament, and must not be considered as such. Their argument
cuts both ways, and it might be applied to the Russian Government,
comparing it with the Governments of other countries, but I would rather
apply this reasoning to the demands of the Duma. The Government says
these demands are impossible, and public opinion in England is apt to
re-echo this sentiment, feeling that this standpoint is a safe and sound
one. I am not going into the question in detail; only I wish to point
out a few facts which perhaps make these demands seem less extravagant
than they appear to be at first sight.

Let us take first the abolition of capital punishment. People say: “They
are asking for the abolition of capital punishment in Russia, whereas in
an enlightened country like ours we hang women. It is absurd.” Now,
capital punishment, except for regicides, was abolished in Russia by the
Empress Elizabeth in 1753; and it has only been applied lately in virtue
of martial law. If you committed an ordinary murder in Russia you were
put in prison for a certain number of years, often not for a very long
period. Ordinary murders did not increase in consequence, and the
Russians were satisfied with this detail of their legislation. Now,
since the revolutionary movement began last year, and more especially
since the prevalence of martial law in many districts, what has happened
is this: that whereas capital punishment was still in abeyance in
respect to ordinary criminals, it obtained as far as political offenders
were concerned. It is objected, of course, that people who throw bombs
must expect to be killed and that the murder of innocent policemen is
wholly unjustifiable. But the other side rejoins as follows: “What is
terrorism but the inevitable result of the continued lawlessness of the
local authorities representing the Government?” While admitting to the
full that it is deplorable, how can one expect it to diminish as long as
the Government continues to condone guilty officials, or only punishes
them in a ludicrously inadequate manner? It is here that the
Government’s case breaks down. A man who kills a policeman is, if he is
caught, at least certain of punishment, but if a police officer walks
into a house and kills, as Ermolov did in Moscow, an utterly inoffensive
doctor, he is certain to be let off (Ermolov was sentenced to
deprivation of military rank and a short term of imprisonment). That is
what the Liberals complain of, pointing at the same time to utterly
indiscriminate executions carried out under martial law by generals in
Moscow, in the Baltic provinces, and in Siberia. I cannot say that I
think their position is wildly unreasonable. The Government’s argument
is exceedingly specious, and it is the easiest thing in the world to
convince any Englishman of its soundness, only it omits half the truth
and the whole cause of the agitation.

The same thing can be said about the demand for amnesty. People in
England think that the Duma is clamouring exclusively for the release of
murderers. The fact is that, as I have said before, the proportion of
murderers in prison is small. The bomb-throwers nearly always escape or
are killed, whereas the prisons are packed with people who are there by
chance and against whom there is not even any accusation.

Again, take the land question: the demands on the Duma seem far less
exaggerated to a Russian Conservative than they do to an English Whig.
The Russian Conservative may, and probably does, disagree with them, but
he does not consider them childishly outrageous. The Duma contains some
highly-respected and important landlords, who have all voted in favour
of the principle of compulsory expropriation, and I think they know more
about the land question in Russia even than the most sensible
Englishman.

_July 6th_ (_Later_).

To-day in the Duma there was a barefooted man in rags, who said he had
arrived in St. Petersburg chiefly owing to the kindness of the railway
guards. His house had been burnt, owing to some squabble with the police
authorities. Another correspondent and I had some talk with him. He
thought we were deputies. He said: “Stand up for our rights and I will
go back and tell them you are doing so.”

_July 6th._

The question of the Inter-Parliamentary Congress to be held in London is
arousing interest here. It is not yet decided what delegates are to go.
Professor Kovolievski introduced me to one of the peasant members of the
Duma—Nazarenko, the deputy for Kharhov—who wished to speak to me about
it. Nazarenko is far the most remarkable of the peasant deputies. He is
a tall, striking figure, with black hair, a pale face with prominent
clearly-cut features, such as Velasquez would have taken to paint a
militant apostle. He went through the course of primary education, and
by subsequently educating himself he has attained to an unwonted degree
of culture. Besides this he is a born speaker and a most original
character. “I want to go to London,” he said, “so that the English may
see a real peasant and not a sham one, and so that I can tell the
English what we, the real people, think and feel about them.” I said I
was glad he was going. “I shan’t go unless I am chosen by the others,”
he answered. “I have written my name down and asked, but I shan’t ask
twice. I never ask twice for anything. When I say my prayers I only ask
God once for a thing, and if it is not granted I never ask again. So
it’s not likely I would ask my fellow-men twice for anything. I am like
that; I leave out that passage in the prayers about being a miserable
slave. I am not a miserable slave, neither of man nor of heaven.” “That
is what the Church calls spiritual pride,” I answered. “I don’t believe
in all that,” he answered. “My religion is the same as that of Tolstoi.”
He then pointed to the ikon which is in the lobby of the Duma. “I pay no
attention to that,” he said, “It is a board covered with gilt, but a lot
of people think that the ikon is God.”

I asked him if he liked Tolstoi’s books. “Yes,” he answered. “His books
are great, but his philosophy is weak. It may be all right for mankind
thousands of years hence, but it is no use now. I have no friends,” he
continued. “Books are my friends. But lately my house was burnt, and all
my books with it. I have read a lot, but I never had anybody to tell me
what to read, so I read without any system. I did not go to school till
I was thirteen.”

“Do you like Dostoievski’s books?” “Yes; he knows all about the human
soul. When I see a man going down hill I know exactly how it will happen
and what he is going through, and I could stop him because I have read
Dostoievski.” “Have you read translations of any foreign books?” “Very
few; some of Zola’s books, but I don’t like them because he does not
really know the life he is describing. Some of Guy de Maupassant’s
stories I have read, but I do not like them either, because I don’t want
to know more about that sort of people than I know already.” “Have you
read Shakespeare?” “Yes. There is nobody like him. When you read a
conversation of Shakespeare’s, when one person is speaking you think he
is right, and when the next person answers him you think he is right. He
understands everybody. But I want to read Spencer—Herbert Spencer. I
have never been able to get his works.” I promised to procure him
Herbert Spencer’s works.

I hope he will go to London, for he is a strangely picturesque figure
and an original character, this dark-eyed Velasquez-like Nazarenko,
proud as Lucifer and full of ideals, a kind of mixture of Shelley and
Cato.

_July 7th._

This afternoon I went to have tea with two of the peasant deputies. They
had asked me because it was the Name-day of one of them. They are living
in a new hotel and are most comfortably lodged. They pay a rouble a day
for a room. Their rooms are far more comfortable and much cleaner than
mine. We had beer, vodka, cucumbers, sardines and cold sausage, and we
discussed very many subjects. During the afternoon many other members
dropped in, and among them a member of the “Council of Empire.” These
peasants, who come from an exceedingly distant government, belong to the
more educated category. I believe the education in their particular
government is good owing to the energy the Zemstva have displayed there.
There are three of these peasants: one of them is a sensible man who
does not know much about things outside Russia; but one of the others is
quite well acquainted with the main features of European politics and
talks of Jaurés, Chamberlain, and Lord Rosebery. “Who would have thought
two years ago,” said one of them, “that we should see an Englishman here
in the flesh?”

_July 8th._

This evening I went to see an electro-technician, whom I know. We went
for a walk on the islands. The technician’s brother, who had been a
sailor, was with us. The electro-technician had been in Belgium and
London. Then we went to the “Norodniu Dom,” the “People’s Palace,” a
place where there is a popular theatre, a garden, and a restaurant.
Before we went in here, the technician’s brother said he must have some
vodka. So we went into a wine shop and he drank a large tumbler of vodka
straight off. “This is the eighth glass I have had to-day,” he said. “It
is only habit. I don’t feel any effects from it; but if I were to drink
a glass of wine now I should be drunk.” We went into the “People’s
Palace” and sat in the garden. Some other friends joined us. We ordered
beer, and the technician’s brother was unwise enough to drink some. The
technician described life in Paris and London. Paris he detested. He
spoke French rather well. He said it was a boring city. I said, “Don’t
you like the French theatres? You must admit they act well.” He said:
“Their plays are so totally different from ours that I cannot bear them.
They are always artificial and never the least like life. Our plays are
like life.” Talking of London, he said when he arrived there he realised
that the Continent was one thing and England a totally different thing.
He said he could not understand thousands of poor people paying a
shilling to see a football match. He had lived in an English family. He
admired the neatness and the cleanliness of everything. He thought the
hospitality of the English was great. He said the point of view of moral
superiority was extraordinary. The way an Englishwoman he had known had
spoken of Indians and Chinese as something so infinitely inferior, too,
had surprised and amused him. The sailor brother put in a few remarks
and was contradicted. The glass of beer which had followed the eighth
tumbler of vodka now took its effect, and he said that a man present had
morally spat three times in his face, and that he was not going to stand
it any longer. His brother said that if he was not quiet he would go. He
refused to be quieted, and so the company broke up.

_July 9th._

To-day I went to the Duma with a translation of Herbert Spencer for
Nazarenko. I also took him a translation of Shelley’s poems and a
translation of “Œdipus Rex.” “There,” I said, “are the poems of a man
called Shelley.” “You mean,” he answered, “the man who was drowned.” He
took up the “Œdipus Rex,” and read three verses out of it. “Modern
poetry depends for its beauty on its outward form,” he said. “It is all
words; but if you read two lines of ancient poetry like this you see
that it contains a whole philosophy.”

_July 11th._

I went to see Nazarenko in his house. He was not at home, but a friend
of his was there. He told me to wait. He was a peasant thirty-nine years
old, rather bald, with a nice intelligent face. At first he took no
notice of me, and read aloud to himself out of a book. Then he suddenly
turned to me and asked me who I was. I said I was an English
correspondent. He got up, shut the door, and begged me to stay. “Do the
English know the condition of the Russian peasantry?” he asked. “They
think we are wolves and bears. Do I look like a wolf? Please say I am
not a wolf.” Then he ordered some tea and got a bottle of beer. He asked
me to tell him how labourers lived in England, what their houses were
made of, what the floors and walls were made of, how much wages a
labourer received, what was the price of meat, whether they ate meat?
Then he suddenly, to my intense astonishment, put the following question
to me: “In England do they think that Jesus Christ was a God or only a
great man?” I asked him what he thought. He said he thought He was a
great man. He said that the Russian people were very religious and
superstitious; they were deceived by the priests, who threatened them
with damnation. He asked me if I could lend him an English bible. He
wanted to see if it was the same as a Russian bible. I said it was
exactly the same. He was immensely astonished. “Do you mean to say,” he
asked, “that there are all those stories about Jonah and the whale and
Joshua and the moon?” I said “Yes.” “I thought,” he said, “those had
been put in for us.” I tried to explain to him that we were taught
almost exactly the same doctrines, the differences between the Anglican
and the Orthodox Church on points of dogma being infinitesimal. We then
talked of ghosts. He asked me if I believed in ghosts. I said I did; he
asked why. I gave various reasons. He said he could believe in a kind of
telepathy, a kind of moral wireless telegraphy; but ghosts were the
invention of old women. He suddenly asked me whether the earth was four
thousand years old. “Of course it’s older,” he said. “But that’s what we
are taught. We are taught nothing about geography and geology. It is, of
course, a fact that there is no such thing as God,” he said; “because,
if there is a God He must be a just God; and as there is so much
injustice in the world it is plain that a just God does not exist.” I
said I could conceive there being an unjust God. Such an idea was
inconceivable, he said. “But you,” he went on, “an Englishman who has
never been deceived by officials, do you believe that God exists?” (He
thought that all ideas of religion and God as taught to the Russian
people were part of a great official lie.) “I do,” I said. “Why?” he
asked. I asked him if he had read the book of Job. He said he had. I
said that when Job has everything taken away from him, although he has
done no wrong, suddenly in the very depth of his misery he recognises
the existence of God in the immensity of nature, and feels that his own
soul is a part of a plan too vast for him to conceive or to comprehend;
in feeling that he is a part of the scheme he acknowledges the existence
of God, and that is enough; he is able to consent, and to console
himself, although in dust and ashes. That was, I said, what I thought
one could feel. He admitted the point of view, but he did not share it.
After we had had tea we went for a walk in some gardens not far off,
where there were various theatrical performances going on. The audience
amused me, it applauded so rapturously and insisted on an encore,
whatever was played, and however it was played, with such thunderous
insistence. “Priests,” said my friend, “base everything on the devil.
There is no devil. There was no fall of man. There are no ghosts, no
spirits, but there are millions and millions of other inhabited worlds.”

I left him late, when the performance was over. This man, who was a
member of the Duma for the government of Jula, was called Petruckin. I
looked up his name in the list of members and found he had been educated
in the local church school of the village of Kologrivo; that he had
spent the whole of his life in this village and had been engaged in
agriculture. That among the peasants he enjoyed great popularity as
being a clever and hard-working man. He belonged to no party. He was not
in the least like the men of peasant origin who had assimilated European
culture. He was naturally sensible and alert of mind.

_July 12th._

The Bill which the Duma passed last week abolishing capital punishment
was discussed in the Upper House the day before yesterday and referred
to a Committee. As the treatment of this matter has excited no little
bewilderment abroad, it will, perhaps, not be useless to go further into
the history of capital punishment in Russia, which I have mentioned in a
previous letter. Capital punishment was abolished in Russia by the
Empress Elizabeth, the daughter of Peter the Great, in 1753. But as long
as the knout was in use it was rather the name of the thing than the
thing itself which was abolished, because a hundred lashes of the knout
meant death. During the last years in which the knout was employed the
number of lashes was limited to thirty-five. Its use was abolished by
the Emperor Nicholas in the first year of his reign (1825). Beating with
a birch was abolished by the Emperor Alexander II. in 1863, except for
peasants; the beating of peasants was abolished in 1904. “Depuis lors,”
writes M. Leroy-Beaulieu in his standard book on Russia, “la législation
Russe est probablement la plus douce de l’Europe.... La peine capitale a
depuis lors été réellement supprimée; à l’inverse de ce qui se voit en
beaucoup d’autres pays, elle n’existe plus que pour les crimes
politiques, pour les attentats contre la vie du Souverain ou la sûreté
de l’État.” During almost the whole reign of Alexander II, from 1855 to
1876, only one man was executed on the scaffold, namely Karakosof, the
perpetrator of the first attempt made on the Emperor’s life. From 1866
to 1903 only 114 men suffered the penalty of death throughout the whole
of the Russian Empire.

Commenting on these statistics in the Council of Empire, M. Tagantzef
pointed out that, in contradistinction to this, during 1906 up to the
month of June, that is, during five months, 108 people have been
condemned to death under martial law, and ninety have been executed, not
counting people who have been killed without a trial. The cause,
therefore, of the present agitation is the fact that capital punishment
exists in Russia for political crimes only by virtue of martial law. M.
Leroy-Beaulieu, in commenting on the first instances of this turn of
affairs, which occurred in 1878, when a political agitator was executed
in Odessa, remarks that a modern State which abolishes capital
punishment should abolish it altogether, “pour ne point se donner le
démenti d’une contradiction rendue parfois d’autant plus choquante pour
la conscience publique qu’il lui répugne de voir, comme en Russie, le
régicide ou le simple conspirateur politique traité plus sévèrement que
le parricide.”

For and against the entire abolition of capital punishment the chief
arguments of each side are at present these: Those who wish capital
punishment to be retained point to the number of political murders which
have occurred during the last year, and especially to the long list of
innocent policemen who have been murdered, and maintain that if capital
punishment is abolished these crimes will increase. Those who wish it to
be abolished say that the existence of capital punishment, so far from
exercising a restraining influence on political criminals, excites
people to murder and makes martyrs of them. Moreover, they point out
that when people expatiate on the terrible list of political
assassinations they altogether overlook their cause. They are not in all
cases the result of irresponsible hysteria. The defenders of the
Government say: “You make martyrs of people who are merely common
murderers;” the opponents answer: “The Government shuts its eyes to the
lawless and criminal acts of its officials, and the people are obliged
to take the law into their own hands.” This is the present state of the
question, and I have endeavoured to present both sides of it. Quite
apart from the political murders of the last two years, it is
interesting to note that, as far as we can tell, the abolition of
capital punishment in Russia has not had the effect of increasing crime.
In 1890 the proportion of homicides was seven to the million in Russia
(7·4), almost exactly the same as the proportion in the British Isles
during that year, which was (7·5).

_July 12th_ (_continued_).

This morning I went to see Nazarenko, who had made an appointment with
me. My friend Petruckin was there also. We discussed the question of the
Inter-Parliamentary Conference. He said he meant to go to London. “They
are so absorbed here in party politics,” he said, “that they forget that
these things are larger and more important, because they concern Russia
as a great power. The members of the Duma do not want to go with the
members of the Council of Empire. But I tell them it is like this. If I
see a wounded man on the ground and go to help him, and a man whom I
dislike comes to help him also, I don’t stop helping the wounded man
because the man I dislike is helping; that would be absurd.”

He said he had read some of the Shelley I had given him. Shelley was a
real poet. Russian poets wrote about nothing except love; but in Shelley
there was a different spirit. “I have read Byron, too, a long time ago;
but he is too pessimistic, and is always harping on one theme—himself.”
I asked him if he had ever read “Paradise Lost.” “Yes,” he answered, “I
read it when I was thirteen; it was one of the first books I ever read.
There is glorious fantasy!”

To-day was a holiday and, talking of this, Nazarenko said that the
quantity of holidays in Russia proved that the Russians were an inferior
race. “My holidays are those days when there is no work for me to do,
just as my fast days are those on which I am not hungry.” Nazarenko, in
the course of conversation, said something about religion, and Petruckin
broke in, and said: “Take care! Mavriki Edouardovitch (that was I) is a
full believer.”

_July 13th._

To-day there are rumours of a new Ministry to be formed from the
majority of the Duma.

_July 16th._

I went to see Petruckin this evening. We had a long conversation about
the land question. He explained to me that the Labour Party’s views as
to the land question were silly. He said that he inclined towards the
views of the Cadets.

_July 18th._

Things are going badly in the Duma, and there is likely to be a split
among the Cadets on the subject of a proposed Manifesto to the people, a
counterblast to the Ministerial Declaration.

_July 19th._

During the last week not only were rumours circulating to the effect
that the resignation of the Ministry had been accepted, but certain
members of the Right positively affirmed that a new Cabinet taken from
the Duma had been formed. It is said now that this task was offered to
M. Shipov, who is the most important representative of the Moderate
parties outside the Duma, and that he refused it. Now, since yesterday
fresh rumours, which have had a bad effect on the Bourse, are afloat to
the effect that all idea of forming a Ministry from the Duma itself has
been abandoned, and that the Government is contemplating the dissolution
of the Duma and the appointment of a military dictatorship. Whether
there is serious foundation for these rumours I do not know, but it is
obvious that there are only four courses open to the Government:

1. To form a Coalition Ministry under some Liberal leader outside the
Duma.

2. To form a Ministry from the majority of the Duma.

3. To dissolve the Duma.

4. To do nothing.

The Government is said to have tried the first course and to have
failed. The second course it appears to regard as being out of the
question. The third course is said to be under consideration now. The
fourth course answers to the Government’s policy up to the present.

I have talked with several Conservatives lately—not Moderate Liberals,
but Conservatives of the old _régime_—and their indignation against the
Government was extreme. One of them said that the formation of a
Ministry from the majority of the Duma, namely, the Cadets, with whom he
had no sympathy, was the only chance of saving the situation; that he
could understand the policy of dissolution; but the Government did
neither the one nor the other, and the people who were paying for this
mistake were the landlords with the destruction and devastation of their
property. Another said to me that there were at present two great
dangerous elements in Russia—the revolutionaries and the Government—and
that of the two the Government was the more dangerous. A third, a large
landed proprietor, said that he preferred to be despoiled by
expropriation rather than to have all his estates devastated and his
houses burnt. A Government taken from the majority of the Duma, he
added, was the only solution, but it should have been done two months
ago; now it was too late. I mentioned the dissolution of the Duma and
the possibility of a dictatorship. “You would want five hundred
dictators, not one,” he answered, “and what is the use of a dictatorship
when the whole country is on fire? The action of the Government has been
like this: it is as if some people had set a town on fire, locked up the
fire engines, and then talked of putting a dictator at the head of the
fire brigade.”

In opposition to this I have heard views expressed which perhaps reflect
those of the Government. One man said to me that it was now obvious that
the Duma, instead of having a pacifying influence, was merely a cause of
disorder; that when it was originally convened he had believed in its
pacifying capacities; but now he was convinced of the contrary, and the
sooner it was dissolved the better. It may be objected that, though it
is after all true that the convening of the Duma did not pacify the
country, it is necessary to reflect under what conditions it was
convened: its hands were tied; the fundamental laws were altered for
this purpose; the Government not only went on governing as before, but
actually took active measures to discredit its new Parliament at home
and abroad. When a Duma was asked for, the thing meant was Responsible
Government. It is over this question of responsibility that the whole
struggle is being carried on.

I have also heard the following argument, which is advanced by the
newspaper _Rossia_, a semi-official organ, this morning: “What do we
lose by deciding on repressive measures? Even if we fail by giving in
now we should be failing; therefore we are exchanging certain failure
for problematic failure; it is better to give in after a fight than to
surrender without a struggle, and our chances, now that we are certain
of at least one part of the Army, are better than they will be a year
hence, when we shall be certain of nothing. We are told that we cannot
dissolve the Duma without provoking a revolution, but, from our point of
view, to give in to the Duma now is equivalent to sanctioning a
revolution. Let us try and prove that we can dissolve the Duma, and that
they are merely trying to bluff with their threats of revolution.” The
logical result of this policy should be civil war.[3]

Footnote 3:

And it has proved to be civil war; but civil war waged in everyday
life and unaccompanied by an armed rising.

All the revolutionary elements in the country would be strengthened by a
dissolution, and one can safely predict that the general disorder would
be increased. For even now the sporadic anarchy is increasing daily.
Will the dissolution of the Duma relieve this tension? I think not. The
question then suggests itself: Is there no hope of a peaceful issue?

A Ministry formed from the majority of the Duma is the only hope; but
whether it would manage to calm matters is another question. It is true
that there is a moderate element, especially among the peasants, who
wish to meet the landlords halfway, who consider the demands of the
Extreme Left, and especially their agrarian programme, to be absurd.
These men would support a Ministry taken from the Duma, but they
continually assert that the Government will not meet them half way, and
that, on the other hand, they consider the schemes which the Government
have put forward to be fundamentally insufficient. Whether a Ministry
composed of members taken from the majority of the Duma would succeed in
calming the country depends on the nature and intensity of the
opposition they would have to encounter, which it is impossible to gauge
at present. One thing is certain, that in the event of such a Ministry
being given a free hand sympathy would cease to be extended to the
throwers of bombs, whose task is now greatly facilitated by the simple
fact that popular opinion is with them.

When people, on the other hand, say that the Cadets have no men with
whom to form a Ministry—and, to be fair, I have only heard this argument
advanced either in England or by some Russian officials here—I have
heard it contradicted by intelligent Russian officials—they are talking
egregious nonsense. People like Professor Miliukov, MM. Nabokor,
Kokoskin, Muromtzeff, and Petradjinski have shown themselves not only to
be men with brains but to possess political capacity and tactical
ability of no mean order. Even if they were twenty times less capable
than they are they would be more capable of governing the country than
the present Ministry. But unfortunately it does not seem probable that
they will ever win the confidence of the Crown, since most of them in
the past have suffered for their political principles, and some of them
have been in prison. Therefore, whereas if they had been born in France
or England they would by now be occupying exalted positions, they are
now looked upon from above as men of the same category as Anarchists and
throwers of vitriol. If Mr. Balfour had been born in Russia he would
certainly have been requested to confine his energies to golf and
metaphysics, but if Mr. Haldane had been born here he would have
probably been sent to think about the path to reality in the paths of
Transbaikalia. Therefore at the root of the whole matter there is a
great misunderstanding between the Crown and the Duma. It is based on
the supposition that the Duma is not representative, and that the
revolution is an artificial thing.

_July 20th._

To-day there are ominous rumours of dissolution in the air. Nazarenko is
not going to London. He said he thought Professor Kovolievski was not
going, so he had withdrawn his candidature. Now it turned out that
Professor Kovolievski was going he was sorry. He said he respected
Maxime Maximovitch Kovolievski to such an extent that if he were to tell
him to hang himself on a tree he would do so.

_July 21st._

Every one is talking of the rumours of dissolution.

_July 22nd._

I went to see some of the peasant members in their hotel. They expect
that the Duma will be dissolved.

_July 23rd._

In this morning’s _Retch_ there was a short paragraph stating that late
in the night a rumour had reached them concerning the dissolution of the
Duma; but it was not true. It was, however, or rather it is. The
dissolution is a fact. I have just seen the official announcement in a
special edition.

CHAPTER XXIV
THE DISSOLUTION OF THE DUMA

ST. PETERSBURG, _July 25th_.

The dissolution of the Duma, although it had been predicted during the
course of last week, and although the arrival of a large number of
troops in St. Petersburg was known, came as a surprise. During the whole
of yesterday the town was abnormally quiet. I went to the various clubs:
the Labour Party Club, the Cadet Club, the Socialist Club. They were all
deserted. Some of the members had left for Finland; others were holding
meetings in various parts of the town. In the club of the Labour Party,
which is in the Nevsky Prospect, nothing was left except the cold
remains of a supper, a large portrait of the Emperor, a picture of the
Dowager Empress, and a pastel of Spiridonovna. At the Cadet Club I saw
the peasant Nazarenko; he was just starting for Finland. “Things are
bad,” I said. “The life of a State is like the life of a man,” he
replied, philosophically. “If there were no bad there would be no good,
either.” Other visitors arrived and gathered together in knots, speaking
with bated breath, as if they were under the cloud of some huge
calamity. “Does it mean the end of the Monarchy?” I asked one man. “It
means the end of the dynasty, in any case,” he answered.

In the evening I saw some Octobrists and Conservatives, and asked them
their opinion. “The Government may be right in having dissolved the
Duma,” one of them said, “but what is criminal on their part is the way
in which they treated the Duma from the first, trying to discredit it in
every possible way, and doing everything they could to provoke it to
rebellion. Russia is an odd country, and everything is possible; it is
possible that the country may quiet down if liberal reforms are at once
put into practice; but I confess I have little faith in this, and if the
country does not quiet down this Ministry will be directly responsible
for any disasters which may happen.”

Some one else, more Liberal, said to me: “If I lose everything I
possess, if my land is devastated and my house is burnt, I shall never
blame the Cadets; I shall never cease to believe they might have managed
things if they had been empowered to do so early enough—that is to say,
last October.”

A third person, a landlord, said to me yesterday that the step was
inevitable, because no Ministry, even were it composed of geniuses, and
no Duma, even were it composed of angels, would be of the slightest
avail until it was settled whether or no there is to be a new _régime_
in Russia. You cannot, he argued, have the new wine in the old skins. It
was no use having a Duma supposed to be working together with a power
directly opposed to it and working in a diametrically opposite
direction. As matters were, a law, if it passed through the Duma and the
Council of Empire, had to be sanctioned by the x quantity who had the
power in his hands at Court. And if it is said that it is not
constitutional to inquire into the advisers of the Crown, it must be
remembered that whenever in other countries advisers have been
all-powerful, and have acted against the will of the people, the
advisers have been forced to go, failing which the Monarch has been
deposed. Now the question will be settled. Either the Government will
prove it can govern the country and quiet it down—that is to say, it
will prove itself to be strong—or it will prove its weakness and
ultimately come to grief.

All these are opinions I have heard expressed by Russians during the
last two days. I have also heard it said that the dissolution of the
Duma is an excellent step, that the Duma did no good and some harm. I
have also heard all the disaster attributed to the Cadets, some people
saying they were too constitutional, and that it is impossible to be
constitutional during a revolution, others that they did not succeed in
dominating the Left parties, but allowed themselves to be overridden by
them.

In the meantime the new Prime Minister has announced his intention of
carrying out a great Liberal programme of far-reaching reforms on a
large scale, and of maintaining the strictest order throughout the
country, so that the reforms may be realised. This sounds charming. “At
first, of course, you think it’s charming, but very soon it gets
alarming.” The first step taken in the new direction has been to
suppress all the Moderate Liberal newspapers and to introduce a system
of censorship more severe than that which prevailed during the worst
times of Plehve, and to arrest a man who took off his hat to the members
of the Duma at the railway station. To-day, however, the Cadet
newspaper, the _Retch_, has once more made its appearance. The
Government are looking forward to the new elections, which they hope
will return a Conservative majority truly representative of the people.

Among other constitutional matters there is one lesson which they have
not learnt, and probably never will learn, and that is that if you have
a Parliamentary system you must put up with the fact that it will often
return a majority which is distasteful to you. If the elections are
carried out fairly it can safely be predicted that the majority returned
will be ultra-Radical. But I suppose this time those steps will be taken
which the present Ministry so bitterly accuse Count Witte of having
omitted to take, the steps to “arrange” the elections, which, we are
told (several officials told me personally), the Government always take
in England. That is to say, Mr. Balfour and Lord Lansdowne, it is
thought, take the necessary steps to prevent the election of Mr. Keir
Hardie and his supporters. It is strange that so far this plan should
have proved unsuccessful. It would be, perhaps, simpler here to pass an
electoral law in virtue of which only policemen could be elected members
of Parliament. This would prove a constitutional measure which the
present Ministry would thoroughly understand.

One sometimes hears it said that the Duma was in too great a hurry, and
that it should have waited patiently and obtained everything by
constitutional means. This was the course the majority were doing their
best to pursue. They had to reckon with a Government which was opposing
them by unconstitutional means. It is certainly not constitutional for a
Government to distribute among the troops proclamations (I have seen
them) inciting the Army against the Parliament, and attacking members of
Parliament with every kind of gross insult and calumny. Nor is it
constitutional for a Minister to request the correspondent of a large
foreign newspaper to state that the Parliament is not a thing to be
reckoned with, but merely a revolutionary body. The answer people made
to these objections is that there is not, and there never has been, a
constitution in Russia, and they are perfectly right.

But, apart from this, I agree with the Russian landlord I have quoted
above, who said that the main question must be decided before one can
talk of a Parliament here. The abscess must be pierced to the core, he
said. It was a pleasing illusion to think the Cadets would obtain a
change of _régime_ by constitutional means. “You must wait, little
pigeon, you must wait,” says a character in a novel by a famous Russian
satirist. “I have done nothing else during my whole life,” is the reply.
And if the Parliament had waited until the Government became
constitutional it could have waited until Doomsday, because, as another
Russian said to me not long ago, “it has less idea of what
_constitutional_ means than the Turks, only the Turks are more competent
and are better governed.”

Of course, if the new Prime Minister succeeds in quieting the country
and carrying out Liberal reforms on a large scale every one will admit
that the Government was right from the first, and that the Duma was
wrong. “But what use are reforms,” said some one to-day, “when the
Government has decided not to give the initial reform which should be
the cause of all the others: namely, a change of _régime_, a
constitution and a system of responsible government?” Besides, in order
to quiet the country the Government must first succeed in recovering the
confidence of the people. At present it has not got the confidence of
any party, any group, or any section of the population.

St. Petersburg is full of troops. A cabman said to me yesterday that
these were not Russian troops, but _Austrians_ in disguise. This is a
curious reflection of the remarks on foreign intervention which were
published on the first page of the semi-official newspaper here last
week, without, of course, the knowledge of the Ministers. I asked the
same man what he expected would happen. “There will be a big _skandal_,”
he answered. “It is impossible that it should be otherwise. They say:
‘Let us have a Duma,’ and then they say, ‘Let us send it away’; there
can only be disorders after that. We, the cabmen, have never yet struck,
but we shall this time when the moment comes.” (I think he thought that
would make all the difference.) “What about the soldiers?” I asked. “The
soldiers oughtn’t to rebel,” he answered, “but they ought to refuse to
fire on the people. They would not be breaking their oath. Their oath
obliges them to fight the enemy, but not their brothers. That is wrong.”
Another cabman said a curious thing to me, as we were driving along the
Quays. “We of ourselves can do nothing,” he said; “but those are the
people who will do it for us,” and he pointed to a student who was
passing by.

The hall porter at the house where I lived told me he had known it all
along. “It is bad,” he said; “very bad.” I think that is really all
there is to be said about the matter. It is bad; very bad—that is to
say, if one looks back and then forward.

_Later._

News has come of the appeal the ex-members of the Duma have made to the
country, urging citizens not to pay taxes and to refuse to serve in the
Army. Everybody is agreed that their action is a fatal mistake, since
they have no means of having any such measures carried out.

CHAPTER XXV
IN THE COUNTRY AFTER THE DISSOLUTION

NEAR MOSCOW, _August 1st_.

I have been staying for the last three days in the country quite close
to Moscow. I thought I should get away for a time from politics, from
talk of new Cabinets, new eras, liberal autocracy, strong-handed reform,
and other such pleasing illusions. I was mistaken. Politics filter
through everywhere now; in a third-class railway carriage, at the
station buffets, in the public parks, in the villages.

As regards the various opinions I heard expressed the prevailing one is
this: that the new Prime Minister’s programme of strong-handed Liberal
reform is a repetition of the programme of the last five Ministers of
the Interior.

M. Stolypin says these last five Premiers were all mistaken in their
policy; in the meantime (people say) it is difficult to see in what
respects his programme is to differ from theirs. And we have no evidence
as yet that M. Stolypin is an infinitely more capable man than Count
Witte. Some people, referring to the official denial of the article that
appeared in the semi-official newspaper _Rossia_, with regard to foreign
intervention, say: “If M. Stolypin cannot control the first page of his
official newspaper, how can he expect to control Russia?” Others
commenting on his intention to initiate social reform and put a stop to
the political movement, say that this effort is the very root and kernel
of the whole trouble in Russia; that the mistake of would-be reformers
has always consisted in their not understanding that social reforms are
impossible unless they are preceded by political reforms. (M.
Leroy-Beaulieu, in his splendid book on Russia, writes in a most
illuminating fashion on this very point.)

As regards what is actually happening in Moscow, the town is empty and
quiet; public meetings are forbidden, small political gatherings in
private houses are held only under surveillance of the police;
gatherings of the “Black Gang” are said to be allowed; the Press is
certainly subjected to a rigid censorship; the _Morning Post_ arrived
blacked out yesterday for the first time for two years; the manifesto of
the ex-members is being spread, likewise the manifesto of the Social
Democrats. I have not seen anybody who thinks that an era of peace and
resigned content has begun.

Near the house where I am living there is a village; as this village is
so close to the town of Moscow I thought that its inhabitants would be
suburban, and therefore not representative of peasant life. This is not
so. The nearness to Moscow seems to make no difference at all. I was
walking through the village on Saturday morning when a peasant who was
sitting on his doorstep called me and asked me if I would like to eat an
apple. I accepted his invitation. He said he presumed I was living with
X., as other Englishmen had lived there before. Then he asked abruptly,
“Is Marie Alexandrovna in your place?” I said my hostess’s name was
Marie Karlovna. “Of course,” he said, “I don’t mean here, but in your
place, in your country.” I didn’t understand. Then he said it again very
loud, and asked if I was deaf. I said I wasn’t deaf and that I
understood what he said, but I did not know to whom he was alluding.
“Talking to you,” he said, “is like talking to a Tartar. You look at one
and don’t understand what one says.” Then it suddenly flashed on me that
he was alluding to the Queen of England. “You mean Queen Alexandra,” I
said, “the sister of the Empress Marie Feodorovna.” “That’s what I
mean,” he said. It afterwards appeared that he considered that England
had been semi-Russianised owing to this relationship; he thought of
course that both the Queen and the Empress were Russians.

Two more peasants joined us, and one of them brought a small bottle (the
size of a sample) of vodka and a plate of cherries. “We will go and
drink this in the orchard,” they said. So we went to the orchard. “You
have come here to learn,” said the first peasant, a bearded man, whose
name was Feodor. “Many Englishmen have been here to learn. I taught one
all the words that we use.” I said I was a correspondent; that I had
just arrived from St. Petersburg, where I had attended the sittings of
the Duma. “What about the Duma?” asked the other peasant. “They’ve sent
it away. Will there be another one?” I said a manifesto spoke of a new
one. “Yes,” said Feodor, “there is a manifesto abolishing punishments.”
I said I hadn’t observed that clause. “Will they give us back our land?”
asked Feodor. “All the land here belongs to us really.” Then followed a
long explanation as to why the land belonged to them. It is the
property, as a matter of fact, of the Crown. I said I did not know. “If
they don’t give it back to us we shall take it,” he said simply. Then
one of the other peasants added, “Those manifestoes are not written by
the Emperor but by the ‘authorities.’” (The same thing was said to me by
a cabman at St. Petersburg, his reason being that the Emperor would say
“I,” whereas the manifesto said “We.”) Then they asked me why they had
not won the war; and whether it was true that the war had been badly
managed. “We know nothing,” he said. “What newspaper tells the truth?
Where can we find the real truth? Is it to be found in the _Russkoe
Slovo_?” (a big Moscow newspaper). They asked me about the Baltic Fleet
and why Admiral Nebogatoff had hoisted a signal which meant “Beat us.”

Then I went away, and as I was going Feodor asked me if I would like to
go and see the haymaking the next day. If so I had better be at his
house at three o’clock in the afternoon. The next day, Sunday, I kept my
appointment, but found nobody at home in the house of Feodor except a
small child. “Is Feodor at home?” I asked. Then a man appeared from a
neighbouring cottage and said: “Feodor is in the inn—drunk.” “Is he
going to the haymaking?” I asked. “Of course he’s going.” “Is he very
drunk?” I asked. “No, not very; I will tell him you are here.” And the
man went to fetch him. Then a third person arrived, a young peasant in
his Sunday clothes, and asked me where I was going. I said I was going
to make hay. “Do you know how to?” he asked. I said I didn’t. “I see,”
he said, “you are just going to amuse yourself. I advise you not to go.
They will be drunk, and there might be unpleasantness.”

Then Feodor arrived, apparently perfectly sober except that he was
rather red in the face. He harnessed his horse to a cart. “Would I mind
not wearing my hat but one of his?” he asked. I said I didn’t mind, and
he lent me a dark blue yachting cap, which is what the peasants wear all
over Russia. My shirt was all right. I had got on a loose Russian shirt
without a collar. He explained that it would look odd to be seen with
some one wearing such a hat as I had. It was a felt hat. The little boy
who was running about the house was Feodor’s son. He was barefooted, and
one of his feet was bound up. I asked what was the matter with it. The
bandage was at once taken off and I was shown the remains of a large
blister and gathering. “It’s been cured now,” Feodor said. “It was a
huge blister. It was cured by witchcraft. I took him to the Wise Woman
and she put something on it and said a few words and the pain stopped,
and it got quite well. Doctors are no good; they only cut one about. I
was kicked by a horse and the pain was terrible. I drank a lot of vodka
and it did no good; then I went to the Wise Woman and she put ointment
on the place and she spoke away the pain. We think it’s best to be cured
like this—village fashion.” I knew this practice existed, but it was
curious to find it so near Moscow. It was like finding witchcraft at
Surbiton.

Then we started for the hay meadows, which were about ten miles distant.
On the road we met other peasants in carts bound for the same
destination. They all gravely took off their hats to each other. After
an hour and a half’s drive we arrived at the Moscow River, on the bank
of which there is a tea-shop. Tea-shops exist all over Russia. The
feature of them is that you cannot buy spirits there. We stopped and had
tea. Everybody was brought a small teapot for tea and a huge teapot of
boiling water, and very small cups, and everybody drank about four or
five cups out of the saucer. They eat the sugar separately, and do not
put it into the cup.

Then we crossed the river on a floating bridge, and driving past a large
white Byzantine monastery arrived at the green hay meadows on the
farther river bank towards sunset. Then the haymaking began. The first
step which was taken was for vodka bottles to be produced and for
everybody to drink vodka out of a cup. Then there was a great deal of
shouting and an immense amount of abuse. “It doesn’t mean anything,”
Feodor said. “We curse each other and make it up afterwards.” Then they
drew lots for the particular strip they should mow; each man carrying
his scythe high over his shoulder. (“Don’t come too near,” said Feodor;
“when men have taken drink they are careless with scythes.”)

When the lots were drawn they began mowing. It was a beautiful sight to
see the mowing in the sunset by the river; the meadows were of an
intense soft green; the sky all fleecy and golden to the west, and black
with a great thundercloud over the woods to the east, lit up with
intermittent summer lightnings. The mowers were all in different
coloured shirts—scarlet, blue, white, and green. They mowed till the
twilight fell and the thundercloud got near to us. Then Feodor came and
made our cart into a tent by tying up the shafts, putting a piece of
matting across them, and covering it with hay, and under this he made
beds of hay. We had supper. Feodor said his prayers, and prepared to go
to sleep, but changed his mind, got up, and joined some friends in a
neighbouring cart.

Three children and a deaf and dumb peasant remained with me. The
peasants who were in the neighbouring tent were drunk; they began by
quarrelling, then they sang for about four hours without stopping; then
they talked. Feodor came back about half an hour before it was light,
and slept for that brief space. I did not sleep at all. I wasn’t tired,
and the singing was delightful to hear: so excessively characteristic of
Russia and so utterly unlike the music of any other country, except that
of Mongolia. What strikes me most about it is in the first place the
accuracy with which the parts are taken, and in the second place the
curious rhythm, and the close, ending generally on the dominant. The
children chattered for some time about mushroom gathering, and the deaf
and dumb man told me a lot by signs, and then they went to sleep.

As soon as it was light the mowers all got up and began mowing. I do not
know which was the more beautiful effect, that of the dusk or of the
dawn. The dawn was gray with pearly clouds and suffused with the
faintest pink tinge, and in the east the sun rose like a great red ball
with no clouds near it. At ten o’clock we drove to an inn and had tea;
then we drove back, and the hay, although it was quite wet, for it had
rained in the night, was carried there and then. “The women dry it at
home,” Feodor explained; “it’s too far for us to come here twice.” The
carts were laden with hay, and I drove one of them home, lying on the
top of the hay, in my sleep. I had always envied the drivers of carts
whom one meets lying on a high load of hay, fast asleep, and now I know
from experience that there is no such delicious slumber, with the kind
sun warming one through and through after a cold night, and the slow
jolting of the wagon rocking one, and the smell of the hay acting like a
soporific. Every now and then one wakes up to see the world through a
golden haze, and then one falls back and drowns with pleasure in a deep
slumber of an inexpressibly delicious quality.

When we re-crossed the river we again stopped for tea. As we were
standing outside an old woman passed us, and just as she passed one of
the peasants said to me, “Sit down, Barine.” Barine, I suppose everybody
knows, means a _monsieur_, in contradistinction to the lower class.
“Very like a Barine,” said the woman, with a sarcastic snort, upon which
the peasant told her in the plainest and most uncomplimentary speech I
have ever heard exactly what he thought of her personal appearance, her
antecedents, and what she was fit for. She passed on with dignity and in
silence. Then, after a time, I climbed up on the wagon again, and sank
back into my green paradise of dreams, and remember nothing more till we
arrived home at five o’clock in the evening.

ST. PETERSBURG, _August 6th_.

At a moment like this, when one meets with various conflicting
statements made by people in authority, Government officials or Liberal
leaders, as to what the Russian people, the real people, are thinking
and feeling, it seemed to me that it would be worth while to put aside
theoretical speculations for a moment, and to try to obtain some small
fragments of first-hand evidence with regard to what the people are
saying and thinking. With this object in view I have spent the last four
nights in the train between Moscow and St. Petersburg. My field of
observation was necessarily small, but it cannot be called
unrepresentative or anti-national.

The first thing which struck me was a small incident which occurred at a
railway station at Moscow, and has a certain significance. I was
engaging a cab, and near me an officer was doing the same thing. The
cabmen were expressing reluctance to accept the officer’s terms, and my
cabman turned round to me and said: “That man comes every day; he is
drunk, and he drives and drives, sometimes to the other end of the town,
and never pays a single kopeck.” “Why do you drive him if he never pays
you?” I asked. “There is nothing to be done—he is an officer,” answered
the cabman. This is a small example of how the lawlessness of the
existing system of government in Russia affects the poorer classes.

I travelled from Moscow to St. Petersburg by a slow train in a
third-class carriage. In the carriage was a mixed and representative
assembly of people—a priest, a merchant from Kursk, a photographer from
Tchelabinsk, a young volunteer: that is to say a young man doing his
year’s military service previous to becoming an officer, two minor
public servants, an ex-soldier who had been through the Turkish
campaign, a soldier who had lately returned from Manchuria, three
peasants, two Tartars, a small tradesman, a carpenter, and some others.
Besides these a whole band of gipsies (with their children) encamped
themselves on the platform outside the carriage, and penetrated every
now and then into the carriage until they were driven out by threats and
curses.

The first thing everybody did was to make themselves thoroughly
comfortable: to arrange mattresses and pillows for the night; then they
began to make each other’s acquaintance. We had not travelled far before
the gipsies began to sing on the platform, and this created some
interest. They suggested fortune-telling, but the ex-soldier shouted at
them in a gruff voice to begone. One of the officials had his fortune
told. The gipsy said she could do it much better for five roubles (ten
shillings) than for a few kopecks, which he had given. I had my fortune
told, which consisted in a hurried rigmarole to the effect that I was
often blamed, but never blamed others; that I could only work if I was
my own master, and that I would shortly experience a great change of
fortune. The gipsy added that if I could give her five roubles she would
tie a piece of bark in my handkerchief which, with the addition of a
little bread and salt, would render me immune from danger. The gipsies
soon got out. The journey went on uneventfully—

Le moine disait son bréviaire,
La femme chantait,

as in La Fontaine’s fable. We had supper and tea, and the ex-soldier
related the experiences of his life, saying he had travelled much and
seen the world (he was a Cossack by birth), and was not merely a
_Moujik_. This offended one of the peasants, a bearded man, who walked
up from his place and grunted in protest, and then walked back again.

They began to talk politics. The Cossack was asked his opinion on the
attitude of the Cossacks. He said their attitude had changed, and that
they objected to police service. The photographer from Tchelabinsk
corroborated this statement, saying he had been present at a Cossack
meeting in Siberia. Then we had a short concert. The photographer
produced a mandoline and played tunes. All the inmates of the carriage
gathered round him. One of the peasants said: “Although I am an ignorant
man” (it was the peasant who had grunted) “I could see at once that he
wasn’t simply playing with his fingers, but with something else” (the
tortoiseshell that twangs the mandoline). He asked the photographer how
much a mandoline cost. On being told thirty roubles he said he would
give thirty roubles to be able to play as well as that. Somebody, by way
of appreciation, put a cigarette into the mouth of the photographer as
he was playing.

Then I went to bed in the next compartment; but not to sleep, because a
carpenter, who had the bed opposite mine, told me the whole story of his
life which was extremely melancholy. The volunteer appeared later; he
had been educated in the Cadet-Corps, and I asked him if he would soon
be an officer. “I will never be an officer,” he answered; “I don’t want
to be one _now_.” I asked him if a statement I had read in the
newspapers was true to the effect that several officers had telegraphed
to the Government that unless they were relieved of police duty they
would resign. He said it was quite true; that general discontent
prevailed among officers; that the life was getting unbearable; that
they were looked down upon by the rest of the people, and besides this
they were ordered about from one place to another. He liked the officers
whom he was with very much, but they were sick of the whole thing. Then
towards one in the morning I got a little sleep. As soon as it was
daylight everybody was up, making tea and busily discussing politics.
The priest and the tradesman were having a discussion about the Duma,
and every one else, including the guard, was joining in.

“Do you understand what the Duma was?” said the tradesman; “the Duma was
simply the people. Do you know what all that talk of a movement of
liberation means? It means simply this: that we want control,
responsibility. That if you are to get or to pay five roubles or fifty
roubles you will get or pay five roubles or fifty roubles, not more and
not less, and that nobody will have the right to interfere; and that if
some one interferes he will be responsible. The first thing the Duma
asked for was a responsible Ministry, and the reason why it was
dissolved is that the Government would not give that.”

The priest said that he approved of a Duma, but unless men changed
themselves no change of government was of any use. “Man must change
inwardly,” he said.

“I believe in God,” answered the tradesman, “but it is written in the
Scripture that God said: ‘Take the earth and cultivate it,’ and that is
what we have got to do; to make the best of this earth. When we die we
shall go to Heaven, and then”—he spoke in a practical tone of voice
which settled the matter—“then we shall have to do with God.” The priest
took out his Bible and found a passage in the Gospel. “This
revolutionary movement will go on,” he said, “nothing can stop it now;
but, mark my words, we shall see oceans of blood shed first, and this
prophecy will come true,” and he read the text about one stone not being
left on another.

Then they discussed the priesthood and the part played by priests. “The
priests play an abominable part,” said the tradesman; “they are worse
than murderers. A murderer is a man who goes and kills some one. He is
not so bad as the man who stays at home and tells others to kill. That
is what the priests do.” He then mentioned a monk who had preached
against the Jews in the South of Russia. “I call that man the greatest
criminal, because he stirred up the peasants’ blood, and they went to
kill the Jews. Lots of peasants cease to go to church and say their
prayers at home because of this. When the Cossacks come to beat them,
the priests tell them that they are sent by God. Do you believe they are
sent by God?” he asked, turning to the bearded peasant.

“No,” answered the peasant; “I think they are sent by the devil.” The
priest said that the universal dominion of the Jews was at hand. The
tradesman contested this, and said that in Russia the Jews assimilated
themselves to the people more than in other countries. “The Jews are
cunning,” said the priest; “the Russians are in a ditch, and they go to
the Jews and say: ‘Pull us out.’” “If that is true,” said the tradesman,
“we ought to put up a gold statue to the Jews for pulling us out of the
ditch. Look at the time of the _pogroms_, the rich Russians ran away,
but the richest Jews stayed behind.” “They are clever; they knew their
business. If they stayed you may be sure they gained something by it,”
said the merchant from Kursk. “But we ought to be clever, too,” said the
tradesman, “and try and imitate their self-sacrifice. Look at the Duma.
There were twenty Jews in the Duma, but they did not bring forward the
question of equal rights for the Jews before anything else as they might
have done. It is criminal for the priests to attack the Jews, and if
they go on like this the people will leave them.”

“Whereas,” said the merchant from Kursk thoughtfully, “if they supported
the people the people would never desert them.” “The priests,” said one
of the other nondescript people, “say that Catherine the Second is a
goddess; and for that reason her descendants have a hundred thousand
acres. General Trepoff will be canonised when he dies, and his bones
will work miracles.”

The guard joined in here, and told his grievances at great length. They
discussed the assassinations of Hertzenstein and Admiral Chouchnin.
“Hertzenstein never did any one any harm,” some one said; “Chouchnin
condemned hundreds and hundreds of people to death.”

At one of the stations a fresh influx of people came, among others an
old peasant and a young man in a blouse. The old peasant complained of
the times. “Formerly we all had enough to eat; now there is not enough,”
he said. “People are clever now. When I was a lad, if I did not obey my
grandfather immediately he used to box my ears; now my son is surprised
because I don’t obey him. People have all become clever, and the result
is we have got nothing to eat.” The young man said the Government was to
blame for most things. “That’s a difficult question to be clear about.
How can we be clear about it? We know nothing,” said the old peasant.
“You ought to try and know, or else things will never get better,” said
the young man. “I don’t want to listen to a _Barine_ like you,” said the
old peasant. “I’m not a _Barine_, I am a peasant, even as thou art,”
said the young man. “Nonsense,” said the old peasant.

The discussion was then cut short by our arrival at St. Petersburg.

CONCLUSION

This book admits of no real conclusion, since its sole object is to
throw a few sidelights on a struggle which is still going on, and which
is possibly still in its infancy. My experience of it so far leads me to
believe that there are only two sides in this struggle (although at
first sight it appears to be infinitely more complicated), and that
these two sides are the same which have split up all countries in all
times under various names such as Roundheads and Cavaliers, or Reds and
Whites.

In Russia the two classes are the defenders and the opponents of the
Government, or rather of the autocracy. The former base their
contentions on the affirmation that Russia is an Oriental country and
that Western institutions are unsuited to the Russian people.
Parenthetically, I must mention that I am not alluding to the extreme
reactionaries—to those people who wish to go back to institutions which
existed before the time of Peter the Great. I am referring to
intelligent people who, while belonging to no political parties, simply
disbelieve in the Liberal movement in Russia, consider it to be the
hysterical cackling of an unimportant minority, and think that the whole
matter is mere stuff and nonsense. The opinion of these people is
certainly worth considering, not because they are more impartial than
others who belong to parties, since their ideas are equally based upon
prejudice, but because they may be right. These people say that all talk
of a Constitution is beside the mark. They argue thus:

“We must have a Constitution, just as we have an Army and a Navy,
because the idea soothes the revolution-haunted breasts of foreign
financiers, but we shall never have a real Constitution because we don’t
want one. Reforms? Oh, yes, as many as you please, on paper, signed and
countersigned, but they will remain a dead letter, because they are not
adapted to the character and the spirit of the nation. You cannot force
Russian peasants to own land in the way Western peasants do. You can
make laws telling them to do so, but if you force them you will only
drive them to rebellion. Russia is like China; you can draw up a
Constitution for Russia, but when it is carried out you will find that
the only practical difference between the old state of affairs and the
new is that the writing-table of the Minister of Foreign Affairs is to
be oblong instead of round. People say that the Russian people is good
and that its Government is bad, but the faults of the people are not the
result of the inherent vices of the Government; the vices of the
Government are the logical result of the faults, which in their turn are
the inevitable complement of the good qualities, of the people. The
desire for Liberal reforms based on Western examples is merely a
fictitious agitation of a minority, namely, the ‘Intelligenzia’ or
middle class, who have forgotten and lost their native traditions and
instincts and have adopted and not properly assimilated the traditions
and instincts of Western Europe. They have ceased to be Russian, and
they have not become European. They have taken the European banner of
ideals, but they do not know what to do with it; they cannot hold it up
in their weak Slav hands. The result is words, words, words. This
chatter will continue for a time, and when people get tired of
listening, it will cease. As for the people, the real people, they will
settle their affairs with those immediately connected with them, with
their landlords, &c. The Government will make plenty of reforms on paper
and have a Duma; but everything will go on exactly as it was before.
Because you cannot change the character of a people, and the form of
government they enjoy is the result and the expression of their
qualities and of their defects.”

Such are the arguments I have often heard advanced by these people, and
I say once more that they may be right. Three years ago I was firmly
convinced that they were right, and even now I have an open mind on the
subject, although two years of close contact with Russians of all
classes have led me to change my own opinion, and to agree with the
other equally impartial people, who are just as Russian and have just as
much knowledge of the country and experience of their fellow countrymen,
and who flatly deny the whole thing. According to this school, the
comparison with China is wrong because the Chinese are intellectually a
highly civilised nation, and the proportion of them who can read and
write is large. The present _régime_ in Russia is not the natural
expression of national characteristics, but a fortuitous disease which
has been allowed to spread without ever having been radically treated.
Neither Autocracy nor Bureaucracy is a thing which has grown out of the
immemorial traditions and habits of the Russian people; Autocracy was
the product of a comparatively recent change in Russian history, and
Bureaucracy the accidental result of the further changes introduced by a
man of genius. The Government made certain things impossible: such as
education for the peasants, laws for the peasants, justice, &c.; then,
when the results of these prohibitions began to make themselves felt,
turned round and said: “You see what these men are like; it is no use
giving them anything because they are hopeless; they are like niggers
and must be treated as such.” This has been the proceeding of the
Government: to prevent, prevent, and prevent again; and then, when the
explosion resulting from the prevention occurred, to observe how right
they had been in preventing, and how necessary it was to prevent more
and more, because it was the only thing the people understood. In this
blindness and obstinacy, year after year deferring the payment of their
debt, they have let the interest accumulate; and when they eventually
have to pay, far more will be required of them than they need originally
have surrendered.

The people who represent these two schools of thought both say that they
are Russia. They assert: “We are Russia—tout le reste est littérature.”
Only time can show which is right. I have noticed that with the
representatives of both these schools the wish is father to the thought
and that they generalise on their own desires and their own experience
coloured by those desires. Which really represents Russia, we shall know
perhaps in ten years’ time. As far as my own experience goes among
peasants, workmen, &c., they have all been representatives of the second
school. But then, the first school would say that this is immaterial,
because the people may be thirsty for law, and yet incapable of drinking
it.

But those who belong to the second school, and without following any
party are liberal in thought and deed, say to their opponents: “If it is
true that what you represent is really Russia, we have no further wish
to remain Russians, and the day you are proved to be in the right, we
will emigrate and settle in Turkey, in Persia, or in China.”

INDEX

Agrarian Question, the—
Agitation, beginnings of the, 98, 99
Cadets, attitude towards the, 230
Cause of the problem, 178–79
Duma, speeches in the, 235
Expropriation scheme, 179–81
Government’s attitude towards, 108–9
Peasants’ view of the land purchase, 145–47;
of possession, 290–91
Solutions proposed, 88–89, 179–83, 230–32

Aladin, M.—
Politics of, 223–24
Speeches of, 199–200, 208, 214, 221, 246–47

Alexander II., reforms of, 182, 214, 270–71

Alexander III., policy of, 182

Alexandra, Queen, Russian opinion of, 290

Alliance of October 17th, _see_ Octobrists

“Alliance of the Russian People”—
Demonstration outside the Kremlin, 49
Principles of the, 152–53

Amnesty Question, the, 36, 37—
Current ideas on, 225–26
English opinion on, 262
Kovolievski, Prof., speech on, 215
Nabokov, M., speech on, 213–14

Anikin, M., his speeches, 214, 221

Anti-revolutionaries, attacks on Count Witte, 79

Army, the—
Rostov Regiment, mutiny in the, 50
Spirit in the, 64–65, 72, 209–10, 236, 299
Volunteers, position of, 296–99

Arnold, Matthew, _quoted_, 37;
his books on the Russian index, 92

Art nouveau style, prevalence in Russia, 192, 245

Artistic Theatre, Moscow, Gorki’s play at, 29–30

Assumption, Cathedral of the, Holy Week services, 163–64

Audience, characteristics of a Russian, 198–99

Aulard, Prof., _quoted_, 222

Austin, Alfred, 82

Austrians in St. Petersburg, 286

Autonomists, number in the Duma, 218

Bacon, Lord, 106

Baikal, Lake of, 4

Balfour, Mr., 105, 240, 284

Barine, meaning of term, 295

Bastille, storming of the, Walpole _quoted_, 116–17

Bauman, veterinary surgeon shot, 28;
his funeral, 32–33

Beaconsfield, Lord, 119

Beethoven, _Fidelio_, 40

Bielostok, massacre at, 253

Birch, punishment abolished by Alexander II.

Biron, Duc de, _quoted_, 249

Bismarck, Prince, policy, 41, 102, 111–12

“Black Gang,” or “Black Hundred,” 28, 34–35, 67, 88, 289

Black Sea Fleet, mutiny, 6

“Block,” composition of the, 156

Boswell, _quoted_, 152

Boulygin project, the, 98

“Browning” pistols, use of, 50

Bruno, Giordano, 112

Buckle read in Russia, 93

Bunyan, popularity of “Pilgrim’s Progress,” 148

Bureaucratic system, faults of the, 94–95

Burial of Our Lord, service commemorating, 163–64

Byron read in Russia, 93, 105, 273

Cabman, the, in Moscow, 73, 291

“Cadets,” _see_ Constitutional Democrats

Capital Punishment—
Abolition in Russia, question of, 260–61
Bill passed by the Duma abolishing, 270–72

Carlyle read in Russia, 93

Catherine II., 301

Character, English and Russian compared, 77–78, 223–24

Chartres, Bishop of, _quoted_, 207

Chernaia, village of, 51–55

Chinese—
Hospitality of the, 12–13
Recitation, their manner of; 15–16
Wizard, the professional, 16–17

Chila, description, 5–7

Chouchnin, Admiral, assassination, 301

Climate, Russian, 180–81

Commerce and Industry, party of—
Principles of, 153
Union with the Octobrists, 156

Congress, the Inter-Parliamentary, 262, 273

Conservative Party, the—
Attitude towards the Manifesto of Oct. 17th, 133;
towards the Duma, 222–23;
towards the Government, 275
Dissolution, opinion of the, 282
Position after the Manifesto, 38

Constituent Assembly, the demand for, 42, 76

Constitution, Government’s intentions regarding a, 109, 132

Constitutional Democrats, the—
Characteristics, 194–95
Current ideas on their policy, 94, 226–29, 230–32
Moderates’ charges against, 153–54
Origin of the, 129–30
Policy, 46, 153, 175–76, 181–82, 283–85
Programme, their election, 87, 158–59
Prominent members sketched, 218–220
Strength in the Duma, 156, 158–59, 218
Tiers-État compared with the, 205–7

“Controller” of a train, his duties, 5

Convicts, Russian, treatment of, 24, 26

_Cornhill Magazine_ sold in Moscow, 160

Cossacks, the—
Attitude towards the “soldiers,” 12
Opinion of a Cossack regarding, 298
People, treatment of, 28–29, 33, 68–69

Council of Empire, charges against the Duma, 197

Crown, misunderstanding between the Duma and the, 278–79

Dante, _quoted_, 19

Danton, _quoted_, 249

De Witt, 112

Decembrists of 1825, 82

“Declaration of the Rights of Man,” 107

Delegate, the election of a, 154–56

Demchinsky, Boris Nikolaievitch, 10

Democratic Reform, the Party of, Policy, 220

Dolgoroukoff, Prince, 130, 220

Dostoievski, 18, 89—
Anniversary celebrations, 121
Genius of 122–27,
“Letters from a Dead House,” popularity of, 149–50
Peasants’ opinion of his books, 264

Doyle, Conan, read in Russian, 18

Dresden Hôtel, Moscow, 188

Drunkenness in Russia, 7

Du Maurier, _quoted_, 32

Dubassoff, Admiral, addresses the crowd, 49;
charges against, 68, 86

Duma, the—
Capital punishment abolished, 270–72
Censure, vote of, passed, 215
Composition, 218–24
Concession, the, of Aug. 6th, 98
Current ideas regarding the, 225–32, 299–300
Dissolution, 275–81;
ex-members’ appeal to the country, 287
Emperor’s refusal to receive President, 207–9
General desire for, 88
Government’s attitude towards, 221, 234, 259
Loan Question, the, 174–77
Opening of the, 191–201
Orderliness of the, 198–99, 203
Prime Minister’s Address, 212–13
Prognostications regarding, 153, 156–58, 189–90
Speech of a peasant, 215–17;
of Prince Urussoff, 250–57

Durnovo, M.—
Policy, 95, 132, 136
Resignation, 174, 184

Easter in Moscow, 162–69

Education, faults of English, 92–93,
_see also_ Schools

Eight-hours’ day question, 87–88

Ekaterinoslav Regiment, the, 165

Elections, results of the, 156

Electorate Law, news of the, brought to Moscow, 61–62

Elizabeth, Empress, capital punishment abolished by, 260, 270

Emigration suggested as solution to agrarian question, 181–83

England—
Attitude of average Russian towards, 93
Convention in, Russian opinion regarding, 103–6, 240–42, 266
Opinion in, on Russian questions, 259–62

Ermitage Restaurant, proprietor shot, 67

Ermolov, police officer, his crime, 78;
his punishment, 261

Esthonians, number of, in the Duma, 218

Expropriation of private property proposed, 179–80;
of State Lands, 180–81

Extreme Conservatives, reception of the October Manifesto, 135

Extreme Radicals, reception of the October Manifesto, 135

Fairs—
Moscow town, 169
Palm Sunday at Red Place, 159–61

Fasts, Holy Week, observance of, 163–64

Feodor, peasant, his opinions, 290–95

Fielder’s School, the revolutionary meeting in, 56;
condition after the bombardment, 66

Finland, political meeting at Terrioki, 243–49

Fontanka, the printing-press discovered at, 254–56

Foreign intervention after dissolution of the Duma, 286, 288–89

Franchise Law, nature of the, 154–56

Freedom of Speech granted by October Manifesto, 98–99

French Revolution—
Russian compared with, 116–18, 174, 205–7, 210
Walpole, Horace, _quoted_, 116–18

Funeral in Moscow, description of a, 32–33

Gapon, 248

“Gasudar,” the, 77

Germany, attitude towards the Polish question, 41–42

Gipsies, Russian, 297

Gladstone, 106

Glinka, M., doctor, 14, 17

Godziadan, the military station at, 10

Gogol, his unpopularity, 149

Gonchuling, description, 9–10;
tram-railway from, 20

Gorki, Maxim, “Children of the Sun,” description, 29–30

“Gospodi, Gospodi,” 166

Government, the—
Attitude towards the Duma, 221, 234, 258–59
Employment of the Press, 234–35, 250–56
Oppression of lower classes, 296
Policy of “Proisvol,” 86–87, 94–96
Resignation of the Ministry, July, 1906, 274

Governor-General, Moscow, the attack on, 188–89

Governors, Provincial, empowered to “outlaw” province, 99

Habeas Corpus, the Russian, 224

Haggard, Rider, read in Russian, 18

Hall of the Duma, description, 191–92

Hardie, Mr. Keir, 284

Haymaking near Moscow, 291–97

Hertzenstein, M., account of, 220;
assassination of, 301

Herzen the Socialist, 160

Heyden, Count, politics, 218

Hliebnikov, M., Cossack officer, 14, 18, 122

Holy Shroud, the Service of the, 163

Holy Week in Moscow, 162–63

Homel, the January massacre at, 253

Hooliganism in St. Petersburg, 40;
in Moscow, 49–50;
_see also_ Black Gang

Hôtel de France, Moscow, 28;
the Métropole windows broken by the Black Gang, 35;
the National, 35;
the Dresden, Moscow, 73

Hugo, Victor, _quoted_, 118

Hung-Hutzes, depredations by the, 20

Ibsen, 103

Ignatieff, Count, estates of, 236

“Intellectuals,” the, character of, 43;
wholesale arrests of the 132

Intelligenzia, the—
As a Political Party, 130
Revolutionary sympathies of the, 77, 81–83, 90–91
Treatment by the Government, 91–96

Irkutsk, 3

Ivan Veliki, Cathedral of, 164

Jacobins, the, 88

Jen-tzen-tung, description, 11–12, 15–16, 20

Jerome, Jerome K., read in Russian, 18

Jewish massacres, the, 250–57, 300–301

Jilkin, M., 245

John, Father, of Kronstadt, 52

Johnson, Dr., _quoted_, 114, 148, 152

Junius, _quoted_, 186–88

Karakosof, execution of, 271

Karavaieff, B. V. Kousmin, 220

Kareev, N., 220

K. D. Club, the, deserted on dissolution of the Duma, 281

Kharbin, description of, 8–9

Khilkoff, his portrait, 22

Kiev, massacres at, 253, 255

Kipling, Rudyard, read in Russian, 18;
the “Jungle Book,” 210–11

Kizlitzki, M., of the battery, 14, 17–18

_Kniaz Potemkin_, the mutiny on the, 98

Knout, use of the, abolished, 270

Kokoshkin, F. F., joins the Zemstvoists, 130;
speeches of, 219

Kologrivo, village of, 270

Komissaroff, officer, and the printing-press, 254–55

_Koulich_, 165, 166

Kouropatkin, 10, 220

Kouznetsk, town of, effect of railway strike at, 21–25

Kouznetski Most, the, Moscow, 59

Kovolievski, Prof.—
Expropriation, his speech on, 214–15
Inter-Parliamentary Congress, to go to, 272
Motion of, 192–94
Style of oratory, 199, 208–9, 220

_Kreekòons_, arrests of the, 154

Kremlin, the—
Demonstrations on the Emperor’s birthday, 49
Easter Services in, 162–69

Kronstadt, the mutiny at, 44, 98

La Fontaine, _quoted_, 297–98

Labour Party, composition in the Duma, 218, 221

Labour Party Club, 281

Land, _see_ Agrarian question

Landlords, condition subsequent to the land sales, 178–79

Landscape, a typical Russian, 144

Lansdowne, Lord, 284

Law and Order, party of, 153

“League of Liberation” formed by the Zemstvoists, 129

Lee, Vernon, 161

Leroy-Beaulieu, M., _quoted_, 270–71;
his book on Russia, 289

Letts, number of, in the Duma, 218

Li, Chinese measure, 12

Libau, the mutiny at, 98

Liberal Party, the—
Attitude towards the War, 128
Demands of, 36–38, 42
Manifesto, reception of the, 35, 133–34
Views of, 107–116, 303–7

_Liberté de Mœurs_, 234, 241

Liberty of the Press, _see_ Press

Liberty, personal, in Russia, 242–45

Linievitch, 9

Ling Po, 15

Literature, amount of translations from English, read, 18–19

Lithuanians, number of, in the Duma, 218

Little Russians, 24

Loan, the Foreign—
Party opinions regarding, 174–77
Social Revolutionaries, attitude of the, 169–70

Lobkovski Pereoolok, the, Moscow, 56

London, a Russian’s opinion of, 266

Losev, peasant, his speech in the Duma, 215–17

Louis XVI., Prof. Aulard on, _quoted_, 222;
his policy, 258–59

Lvov, M., joins the Zemstvoists, 130, 220

Mæterlinck, 103

Manchuria, outbreak of typhus, 4;
chaos at the Railway Station, 7–8

Manège, the, Easter at, 165

Manifesto of December, 1904, 98

Manifesto of October 17, 1905—
Moscow, effect of publication in, 27–28, 31–38
Nature of the, 132–33
Party opinion on, 134–35
St. Petersburg, effect of publication in, 107–8
Trepoff, attitude towards the, 39

Manifestoes, party, after dissolution of the Duma, 289;
the two, of February 18, 1905, 98

Marlborough, Duke of, 106

“Marseillaise,” singing of the, 244

Martial Law enforced in Poland, 42, 99

Massacres, the, Prince Urussoff’s speech on the causes, 250–57

Maundy Thursday services, 163

Maupassant, Guy de, 264

Metrofan, porter, disappearance, 67;
death, 73

Métropole Restaurant, Moscow, 31

Milioukov, Prof., forms the “Union of Unions,” 130
Leader of Cadet party, 153, 218–19
Policy of, 208–9

Mill, John S., read in Russia, 93

Milton read in Russia, 93;
_Paradise Lost_, 147–50

Mirabeau, Walpole’s criticism, 117–18, 120;
_quoted_, 199–200, 210

Mirsky, Prince, his reforms, 98, 114, 119, 120

Moderates, the—
Criticism of Count Witte, 46
Number of, in the Duma, 218
Principles, 80

Monarchical party, the, 152

Monarchy, attitude of the political parties towards the, 152, 153

Mongols, manner of riding, 13–14;
dress of, in Jen-tzen-tung, 16

Morley, John, read in Russia, 93

_Morning Post_ and the Censorship, 289

Morshansk, 151

Moscow—
After the Rising, 63–74;
after the dissolution of the Duma, 288
Christmas Day 1905 in, 59–61
Easter in, 162–69
Election results in, 154, 156–57
Hooliganism in, 49–50
Manifesto of October, effects of publication, 27–28, 31–38
Political parties in, 128–36
Strikes in, effects of, 50–62, 99
Suburbs of, 289–90
Town fairs of, 169
Witchcraft in, 292

_Moscow Gazette_, connection with the massacres, 253

Moscow River, the, 293

_Moujik_, the term, 298

Mukden, battle of, 9

Murders, political, prevalence of, 272

Muromtzeff, C. A., President of the Duma, 192, 196, 219

Musalmans, number of, in the Duma, 218

Mwilnikov, the, Moscow, 56

Nabokov, M., his speech replying to the Prime Minister, 213–14;
his style of oratory, 219

Name-day, observance of the, 265

Napoleon, his policy, 111

Nationalists, the reactionary, criticism of Count Witte, 46

Nazarenko, the peasant, sketch, 263–64, 273, 279;
returns to Finland, 281

Nebogatoff, Admiral, 291

Necker, M., Walpole’s criticism, 117

Neglinii Proiesd, the, Moscow, 59, 68

Nevsky Prospect, St. Petersburg, 281

New Year, Russian observance of the feast, 82–83, 89

Nicholas II.—
Absolute authority preserved by the October Manifesto, 132–33
Audience refused to President of Duma, 207–9
Knout, use of, abolished by, 270
Reign of, sketched, 172–73
Zemstvo deputation to, 98

Nikolaiev, Railway Station seized by the strikers, 57;
scene on Christmas Day, 1905, 60

Nikolaievitch, Dimitri, on the political outlook, 171–77

“Norodniu Dom,” the, St. Petersburg, 265–67

_Novoe Vremya_, the, 214

Octobrists, the—
Attitude towards the Manifesto, 108
Dissolution of the Duma, opinion regarding, 282
Election results, reception of the, 157
Moderate principles of the, 153, 156

“Old Souls,” arrangement for the purchase of land, 145–46

Opéra Bouffe, the, 44

Orleans, Duke of, Walpole’s criticism, 117

Ostrovski, Mr., 9

Ouida, 138

Oushitai, Chinese town, 12, 20

Palm Sunday in Moscow, 159–61

Paris, the street fighting of ’32, &c., 57, 69;
a Russian’s opinion of, 266

_Pascha_, 165, 166

Peace negotiations, the, popular opinion regarding, 1–3, 8–10, 15, 16

Peasants, the—
Character, 65, 143–44, 181–82
Condition, 1905–6, 88–89
Duma, opinion of the, 196–99;
their behaviour in the, 203–4, 209–10;
their politics in the, 221
Education and literary taste of, 147–51
Emigration, the question of, 181–83
Franchise, method of using the, 154
Land purchase, view of the, 145–47
Poverty of, 179–80
Speech of a peasant in the Duma, 215–17

People, the Russian, description, 141–44

Peter the Great, his policy, 229

Peterhof, suburb of, description, 204–5

Petrajitski, L., 220

Petruckin, peasant, his opinions, 267–270, 273, 274

Petrunkevitch, I., leader of the Zemstvoists, 129;
Cadet, 153;
his style, 219

Piensa, railway strike at, 25

Plehve, M., public opinion regarding, 47;
his _régime_, 119, 182

Poland—
Constitutional liberties delayed, 40–42
Duma, number of Poles in the, 218
Local autonomy for, desired by Cadets, 153
Martial law declared, 99

Police—
Abolition of the secret force, 36
Cadets opposed by, 157
December rising, non-preparedness for, 131–32
Massacres, connection with the, 250–56
Methods of the, 170, 201, 226
Shooting of, 78–79, 207, 261
Unlimited powers of the, 94
Withdrawal and restoration of, in Moscow, 28, 35

Politeness, Russian, 4–5

Political Parties, formation of the, 128–29, 152

Postal Strike, the, effects of, 44, 99;
arrest of the officials, 99

Presnaya, destruction of the factory at, 85

Press, the—
Censorship of, 95;
renewed after dissolution of the Duma, 289
English, accusations against, 79
Freedom of, 119
Massacres, connection with the, 250–56
Ministerial use of the, 234–35
Radical, attacks on Count Witte, 42–43;
on the Government, 119
Revolutionary spirit of, 237

Priests, a peasant’s opinion of the, 300–301

Printing-Press, discovery of the, 254–56

Prisoners, political, amnesty to, _see_ Amnesty question;
deportment of, 6

Professional classes, parties formed among the, 130;
_see also_ Intelligenzia

Public meetings, law forbidding, August 6, 1905, 98;
allowed by October Manifesto, 98–99

Public opinion on the situation, Dec., 1905,47–59

_Punch_ sold in Moscow, 160

Railway travelling in Russia, 4, 8, 243, 296–97

_Ravnienie_ or “levelling,” peasants’ view of, 145

Red Cross—
Abuse of the, 67
Encampments near Jen-tzen-tung, 12

Red Place, Palm Sunday fair at, 159–61

_Reformkleider_, use of, 245

Religion of the peasants, 268–69

Renan, _quoted_, 84–85, 103

_Retch_, the, 284

Revolution of December, 1905—
Account, 65–69
Causes, 69–74
Effect on nature of the people, 142–43

Revolutionaries, the—
Criticism of Count Witte, 46
Demands of, 75–77
Tactics of, 65–66

Riansk, Railway strike at, 25;
scene at the station, 60

Riazan, Railway strike at, 25–26

Riding school, Moscow, Cossacks fire from, 33

Right and Order, Alliance of, 100, 156

Robespierre, speech of, 199–200;
Danton’s criticism, 249

Rodichev, M.—
Cadet leader, 153
Speeches of, 199, 214
Zemstvoist leader, 129, 219–20

_Rossia_, the, 276, 288

Rostov Regiment, mutiny in the, 50

Ruskin read in Russia, 93

_Russ_, the, criticism of C. Witte, 117

_Russkie Viedomosti_, 43;
suppression of the, 87

_Russkoe Slovo_, offices burnt, 66;
attack on Count Witte, 79

St. Petersburg—
Current ideas in, Feb., 1906, 100–120
Election results in, 154, 156
Emperor’s birthday, demonstrations, 49
Foreign intervention, the, 286
Hooliganism in, 49–50
Strikes in, 39–44, 99

Samara, 21, 22

Saratov, agrarian agitation in, 99

Sardou, _quoted_, 138

Saviour, Church of the, 165–66

Schipov, Mr., endeavours to unite the Zemstva, 129–30;
his politics, 218;
formation of new ministry entrusted to, 274

Schools, village evening, 53–55;
village day, 150;
instituted by the Zemstvoists, 183

Schumann, Clara, 164

Serfs, results of emancipation, 178

Sevastopol, the mutiny in, 99

Shakespeare read in Russia, 93

Shaw, Bernard, 105

Shelley read in Russia, 93, 105, 267, 273

Siberia, suggested emigration to, 181

Sieyès, _quoted_, 206

Singing, Russian peasant, 294

Sipiagin, M., case of, 185

Sisran, the station at, 21

_Skashi_ or tellers of tales, 149

“Skitaletzt,” his style, 82

Social Democrats, the—
Aladin’s speech, criticism of, 248
Political parties, position among, 154
Principles, 46

Social Revolutionaries, the—
Elections, abstain from action in, 157
Political parties, position among, 154
Principles, 46

Socialist Club, the, 281

Socialists, 154, 156

“Societies,” arrangement by, for the purchase of land, 145–46

Soldiers’ Hospital, Moscow, 72–73, 89, 166–69

Sortes Virgilianæ, 72

Sosnofka, 137–51

South African War, Russian opinions, 101–2

Spencer, Herbert, read in Russia, 93, 264, 267

Stachovitch, M. A., politics of, 130, 218

Stanislavoshi, M., 29

State Lands, expropriation proposed, 180–81

States-General, opening compared with opening of Duma, 205–7

Stevenson read in Chinese, 18

Stolypin, M., policy, 288–89

Strikes, the—
General, in Moscow, Dec., 1905, 50–62
Guerilla tactics of the Strikers, 57
Postal, in Moscow and St. Petersburg, 44, 99
Railway, warnings of, 5–7;
October incidents at Kouznetsk, 21–25;
behaviour of the strikers, 25;
effect in Moscow, 31–38

Struve, M., 153

Students, the, behaviour on publication of Manifesto, 27–28;
treatment by the Black Gang, 34–35

Suffrage, universal, the demand for, 42, 87;
question of women’s, 158

Tacitus _quoted_, 95

Tagantzef, M., comments on capital punishment, 271

_Tarantass_, the, 139

Ta-shi-chiæ, battle of, incident, 17–18

Tauris Palace, description, 191

Tea-shops, Russian, 293

Telegrams, posting of, in the Duma, 204

Terrioki in Finland, political meeting at, 243–49

Tiers-Etat, Cadets compared with the, 205–7

Tolstoi, treatment by the Government, 105;
compared with Dostoievski, 126;
a peasant’s opinion of, 263–64

Toula, 21

Transbaikalia, 6

Trepoff, General—
Character, 39–40
_Dictatorship_ of, 98
Radical Press and, 43
Resignation demanded, 36

Troubetzkoi, Prince S. N., 128

Turkestan, suggested emigration to, 181

Twain, Mark, read in Russian, 18

Typhus, outbreak in Manchuria, 4

Ukraine, number of, in the Duma, 218

Ukase of December, 1904, 98

“Union of Unions,” formation of the, 130

Unions, political, formation of, November, 1904, 130

Urussoff, Prince, 220;
his speech in the Duma, 250–57

Verne, Jules, _Michel Strogoff_, 139

Village, description of a Russian, 140–41

Vilna, the massacre at, 253

Vinaver, M., 220

Volkonsky, Prince, politics, 218

Voting, orderliness during the, 159

Walpole, Horace, _quoted_, 116–18, 120

War, the, current ideas regarding, 101–2

Ward, Mrs. Humphrey, read in Russian, 18

Wells, H. G., _Kipps_, 105;
_Food of the Gods_, 113

_Windt_, the game of, 228

Witchcraft, employment of, 292

Witte, Count—
Financial policy, 177
Greatness of his task, 185–86
Komissaroff, his interview with, 255
Manifesto of October 17th, publication, 107
Party criticism of, 46–47, 79–81, 134–36
Power of, 43–44
Public opinion regarding, 17, 47–48, 184–85
Radical press, opposition, 42
Resignation, 175, 184
_Russ_, criticism of the, 117
Zemstva, their address to, 99;
their attitude towards, 110–13

Zemstva, the—
Coalition of, 128–30
Emperor, the deputation to, 98, 128
Leaders refuse Cabinet posts, 135–36
Liberal demand regarding Ministers, 36
Schools instituted by the, 183
Witte, attitude towards, 99, 103, 110–13

Zemstvo Constitutionalists, formation of the, 129–30

Zhilkin, his style, 221

Zola, M., compared with Dostoievski, 126;
read in Russia, 264

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Little Books on Art, 27
Little Galleries, 28
Little Guides, 28
Little Library, 28
Miniature Library, 30
Oxford Biographies, 30
School Examination Series, 30
Social Questions of To-day, 31
Textbooks of Science, 31
Textbooks of Technology, 31
Handbooks of Theology, 31
Westminster Commentaries, 32

Fiction, 32–36
The Shilling Novels, 37
Books for Boys and Girls, 38
Novels of Alexandre Dumas, 38
Methuen’s Sixpenny Books, 39

NOVEMBER 1906

A CATALOGUE OF

MESSRS. METHUEN’S

PUBLICATIONS

Colonial Editions are published of all Messrs. METHUEN’S Novels issued
at a price above 2_s._ 6_d._, and similar editions are published of some
works of General Literature. These are marked in the Catalogue. Colonial
editions are only for circulation in the British Colonies and India.

An asterisk denotes that a book is in the Press.
I.P.L. represents Illustrated Pocket Library.
S.Q.S. represents Social Questions Series.

PART I.—GENERAL LITERATURE

=Abbot (Jacob).= See Little Blue Books.

=Abbott (J. H. M.).= Author of ‘Tommy Cornstalk.’ AN OUTLANDER IN
ENGLAND: BEING SOME IMPRESSIONS OF AN AUSTRALIAN ABROAD. _Second
Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

A Colonial Edition is also published.

=Acatos (M. J.).= See Junior School Books.

=Adams (Frank).= JACK SPRATT. With 24 Coloured Pictures. _Super Royal
16mo. 2s._

=Adeney (W. F.)=, M.A. See Bennett and Adeney.

=Æschylus.= See Classical Translations.

=Æsop.= See I.P.L.

=Alnsworth (W. Harrison).= See I. P. L.

=Alderson (J. P.).= MR. ASQUITH. With Portraits and Illustrations.
_Demy 8vo. 7s. 6d. net._

A Colonial Edition is also published.

=Aldis (Janet).= MADAME GEOFFRIN, HER SALON, AND HER TIMES. With many
Portraits and Illustrations. _Second Edition. Demy 8vo. 10s. 6d.
net._

A Colonial Edition is also published.

=Alexander (William)=, D.D., Archbishop of Armagh. THOUGHTS AND
COUNSELS OF MANY YEARS. _Demy 16mo. 2s. 6d._

=Alken (Henry).= THE NATIONAL SPORTS OF GREAT BRITAIN. With
descriptions in English and French. With 51 Coloured Plates. _Royal
Folio. Five Guineas net._ The Plates can be had separately in a
Portfolio. _£3. 3s. net._

See also Strand Novels.

=Capes (Bernard)=, Author of ‘The Lake of Wine.’ THE EXTRAORDINARY
CONFESSIONS OF DIANA PLEASE. _Third Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

A JAY OF ITALY. _Fourth Ed. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

LOAVES AND FISHES. _Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Chesney (Weatherby).= THE TRAGEDY OF THE GREAT EMERALD. _Cr. 8vo.
6s._

THE MYSTERY OF A BUNGALOW. _Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

See also Strand Novels.

=Clifford (Hugh).= A FREE LANCE OF TO-DAY. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Clifford (Mrs. W. K.).= See Strand Novels and Books for Boys and
Girls.

=Cobb (Thomas).= A CHANGE OF FACE. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Corelli (Marie).= A ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS. _Twenty-Seventh Edition.
Cr. 8vo. 6s._

VENDETTA. _Twenty-Third Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THELMA. _Thirty-Fifth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

ARDATH: THE STORY OF A DEAD SELF. _Seventeenth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE SOUL OF LILITH. _Fourteenth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

WORMWOOD. _Fourteenth Ed. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

BARABBAS: A DREAM OF THE WORLD’S TRAGEDY. _Forty-first Edition. Cr.
8vo. 6s._

THE SORROWS OF SATAN. _Fifty-first Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE MASTER CHRISTIAN. _Tenth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

TEMPORAL POWER: A STUDY IN SUPREMACY. _150th Thousand. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

GOD’S GOOD MAN: A SIMPLE LOVE STORY. _137th Thousand. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE MIGHTY ATOM. _A New Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

BOY. _A New Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

JANE. _A New Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Crockett (S. R.)=, Author of ‘The Raiders,’ etc. LOCHINVAR.
Illustrated. _Third Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE STANDARD BEARER. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Croker(B. M.).= THE OLD CANTONMENT. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

JOHANNA. _Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE HAPPY VALLEY. _Third Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

A NINE DAYS’ WONDER. _Third Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

PEGGY OF THE BARTONS. _Sixth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

ANGEL. _Fourth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

A STATE SECRET. _Third Edition. Cr. 8vo. 3s. 6d._

=Dawson (Francis W.).= THE SCAR. _Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Dawson (A. J).= DANIEL WHYTE. _Cr. 8vo. 3s. 6d._

=Doyle (A. Conan)=, Author of ‘Sherlock Holmes,’ ‘The White Company,’
etc. ROUND THE RED LAMP. _Ninth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Duncan (Sara Jeannette)= (Mrs. Everard Cotes). THOSE DELIGHTFUL
AMERICANS. Illustrated. _Third Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._ See also
Strand Novels.

=Findlater (J. H.).= THE GREEN GRAVES OF BALGOWRIE. _Fifth Edition.
Cr. 8vo. 6s._

See also Strand Novels.

=Findlater (Mary).= A NARROW WAY. _Third Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE ROSE OF JOY. _Third Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

See also Strand Novels.

=Fitzpatrick (K.)= THE WEANS AT ROWALLAN. Illustrated. _Second
Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Fitzstephen (Gerald).= MORE KIN THAN KIND. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Fletcher (J. S.).= LUCIAN THE DREAMER. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Fraser (Mrs. Hugh)=, Author of ‘The Stolen Emperor.’ THE SLAKING OF
THE SWORD. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

IN THE SHADOW OF THE LORD. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._

=Fuller-Maitland (Mrs.)=, Author of ‘The Day Book of Bethia Hardacre.’
BLANCHE ESMEAD. _Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Gerard (Dorothea)=, Author of ‘Lady Baby’. THE CONQUEST OF LONDON.
_Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

HOLY MATRIMONY. _Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

MADE OF MONEY. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE BRIDGE OF LIFE. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE IMPROBABLE IDYL. _Third Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

See also Strand Novels.

=Gerard (Emily).= THE HERONS’ TOWER. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Gissing (George)=, Author of ‘Demos,’ ‘In the Year of Jubilee,’ etc.
THE TOWN TRAVELLER. _Second Ed. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE CROWN OF LIFE. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Gleig (Charles).= BUNTER’S CRUISE. Illustrated. _Cr. 8vo. 3s. 6d._

=Harraden (Beatrice).= IN VARYING MOODS. _Fourteenth Edition. Cr. 8vo.
6s._

THE SCHOLAR’S DAUGHTER. _Fourth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

HILDA STRAFFORD. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Harrod (P.) (Frances Forbes Robertson).= THE TAMING OF THE BRUTE.
_Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Herbertson (Agnes G.).= PATIENCE DEAN. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Hichens (Robert).= THE PROPHET OF BERKELEY SQUARE. _Second Edition.
Cr. 8vo. 6s._

TONGUES OF CONSCIENCE. _Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

FELIX. _Fifth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE WOMAN WITH THE FAN. _Sixth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

BYEWAYS. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE GARDEN OF ALLAH. _Fourteenth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE BLACK SPANIEL. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Hobbes (John Oliver)=, Author of ‘Robert Orange.’ THE SERIOUS WOOING.
_Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Hope (Anthony).= THE GOD IN THE CAR. _Tenth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

A CHANGE OF AIR. _Sixth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

A MAN OF MARK. _Fifth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE CHRONICLES OF COUNT ANTONIO. _Sixth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

PHROSO. Illustrated by H. R. MILLAR. _Sixth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

SIMON DALE. Illustrated. _Seventh Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE KING’S MIRROR. _Fourth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

QUISANTE. _Fourth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE DOLLY DIALOGUES. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

A SERVANT OF THE PUBLIC. Illustrated. _Fourth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Hope (Graham)=, Author of ‘A Cardinal and his Conscience,’ etc., etc.
THE LADY OF LYTE. _Second Ed. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Hough (Emerson).= THE MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE. Illustrated. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Housman (Clemence).= THE LIFE OF SIR AGLOVALE DE GALIS. _Cr. 8vo.
6s._

=Hyne (C. J. Cutcliffe)=, Author of ‘Captain Kettle.’ MR. HORROCKS,
PURSER. _Third Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Jacobs (W. W.).= MANY CARGOES. Twenty-Ninth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 3s. 6d.

SEA URCHINS. _Twelfth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 3s. 6d._

A MASTER OF CRAFT. Illustrated. _Seventh Edition. Cr. 8vo. 3s. 6d._

LIGHT FREIGHTS. Illustrated. _Fifth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 3s. 6d._

=James (Henry).= THE SOFT SIDE. _Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE BETTER SORT. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE AMBASSADORS. _Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE GOLDEN BOWL. _Third Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Janson (Gustaf).= ABRAHAM’S SACRIFICE. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Keays (H. A. Mitchell).= HE THAT EATETH BREAD WITH ME. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Langbridge (V.)= and =Bourne (C. Harold.)=. THE VALLEY OF
INHERITANCE. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Lawless (Hon. Emily).= WITH ESSEX IN IRELAND. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

See also Strand Novels.

=Lawson (Harry)=, Author of ‘When the Billy Boils.’ CHILDREN OF THE
BUSH. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Le Queux (W.).= THE HUNCHBACK OF WESTMINSTER. _Third Edition. Cr.
8vo. 6s._

THE CLOSED BOOK. _Third Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW. Illustrated. _Third Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

BEHIND THE THRONE. _Third Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Levett-Yeats (S.).= ORRAIN. _Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Long (J. Luther)=, Co-Author of ‘The Darling of the Gods.’ MADAME
BUTTERFLY. _Cr. 8vo. 3s. 6d._

SIXTY JANE. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Lowls (Cecil).= THE MACHINATIONS OF THE MYO-OK. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Lyall (Edna).= DERRICK VAUGHAN. NOVELIST. _42nd Thousand. Cr. 8vo.
6s._

=M‘Carthy (Justin H.)=, Author of ‘If I were King.’ THE LADY OF
LOYALTY HOUSE. Illustrated. _Third Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE DRYAD. _Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Macdonald (Ronald).= THE SEA MAID. _Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Macnaughtan (S.).= THE FORTUNE OF CHRISTINA MACNAB. _Third Edition.
Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Malet (Lucas).= COLONEL ENDERBY’S WIFE. _Fourth Edition. Cr. 8vo.
6s._

A COUNSEL OF PERFECTION. _New Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE WAGES OF SIN. _Fifteenth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE CARISSIMA. _Fourth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE GATELESS BARRIER. _Fourth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE HISTORY OF SIR RICHARD CALMADY. _Seventh Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

See also Strand Novels.

=Mason (A. E. W.)=, Author of ‘The Four Feathers,’ etc. CLEMENTINA.
Illustrated. _Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Mathers (Helen)=, Author of ‘Comin’ thro’ the Rye.’ HONEY. _Fourth
Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

GRIFF OF GRIFFITHSCOURT. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE FERRYMAN. _Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Maxwell (W. B.)=, Author of ‘The Ragged Messenger.’ VIVIEN. _Eighth
Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE RAGGED MESSENGER. _Third Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

FABULOUS FANCIES. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Meade (L. T.).= DRIFT. _Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

RESURGAM. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

VICTORY. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

See also Strand Novels.

=Norris (W. E.).= THE CREDIT OF THE COUNTY. Illustrated. _Second
Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE EMBARRASSING ORPHAN. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

NIGEL’S VOCATION. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

BARHAM OF BELTANA. _Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

See also Strand Novels.

=Ollivant (Alfred).= OWD BOB, THE GREY DOG OF KENMUIR. _Ninth Edition.
Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Oppenheim (E. Phillips).= MASTER OF MEN. _Third Edition. Cr. 8vo.
6s._

=Oxenham (John).= Author of ‘Barbe of Grand Bayou.’ A WEAVER OF WEBS.
_Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE GATE OF THE DESERT. _Fourth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Pain (Barry).= THREE FANTASIES. _Cr. 8vo. 1s._

LINDLEY KAYS. _Third Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Parker (Gilbert).= PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE. _Sixth Edition._

MRS. FALCHION. _Fifth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE TRANSLATION OF A SAVAGE. _Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE TRAIL OF THE SWORD. Illustrated. _Ninth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC: The Story of a Lost Napoleon. _Fifth
Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

AN ADVENTURER OF THE NORTH. The Last Adventures of ‘Pretty Pierre’.
_Third Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE SEATS OF THE MIGHTY. Illustrated. _Fourteenth Edition. Cr. 8vo.
6s._

THE BATTLE OF THE STRONG: a Romance of Two Kingdoms. Illustrated.
_Fifth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE POMP OF THE LAVILETTES. _Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 3s. 6d._

=Pemberton (Max).= THE FOOTSTEPS OF A THRONE. Illustrated. _Third
Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

I CROWN THEE KING. With Illustrations by Frank Dadd and A. Forrestier.
_Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Phillpotts (Eden).= LYING PROPHETS. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

CHILDREN OF THE MIST. _Fifth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE HUMAN BOY. With a Frontispiece. _Fourth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

SONS OF THE MORNING. _Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE RIVER. _Third Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE AMERICAN PRISONER. _Fourth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE SECRET WOMAN. _Fourth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

KNOCK AT A VENTURE. With a Frontispiece. _Third Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE PORTREEVE. _Fourth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

See also Strand Novels.

=Pickthall (Marmaduke).= SAÏD THE FISHERMAN. _Fifth Edition. Cr. 8vo.
6s._

BRENDLE. _Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

‘=Q=,’ Author of ‘Dead Man’s Rock.’ THE WHITE WOLF. _Second Edition.
Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE MAYOR OF TROY. _Fourth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Rhys (Grace).= THE WOOING OF SHEILA. _Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE PRINCE OF LISNOVER. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Rhys (Grace) and Another.= THE DIVERTED VILLAGE. Illustrated by
DOROTHY GWYN JEFFREYS. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Ridge (W. Pett).= LOST PROPERTY. _Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

ERB. _Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

A SON OF THE STATE. _Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 3s. 6d._

A BREAKER OF LAWS. _A New Edition. Cr. 8vo. 3s. 6d._

MRS. GALER’S BUSINESS. Illustrated. _Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

SECRETARY TO BAYNE, M.P. _Cr. 8vo. 3s. 6d._

=Ritchie (Mrs. David G.).= THE TRUTHFUL LIAR. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Roberts (C. G. D.).= THE HEART OF THE ANCIENT WOOD. _Cr. 8vo. 3s.
6d._

=Russell (W. Clark).= MY DANISH SWEETHEART. Illustrated. _Fifth
Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

HIS ISLAND PRINCESS. Illustrated. _Second Edition. Cr. 6vo. 6s._

ABANDONED. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

See also Strand Novels.

=Shannon (W. F.)= THE MESS DECK. _Cr. 8vo. 3s. 6d._

See also Strand Novels.

=Sonnischsen (Albert).= DEEP-SEA VAGABONDS. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Thompson (Vance).= SPINNERS OF LIFE. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Urquhart (M.).= A TRAGEDY IN COMMONPLACE. _Second Ed. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Waineman (Paul).= BY A FINNISH LAKE. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE SONG OF THE FOREST. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._ See also Strand Novels.

=Waltz (E. C.).= THE ANCIENT LANDMARK: A Kentucky Romance. _Cr. 8vo.
6s._

=Watson (H. B. Marriott).= ALARUMS AND EXCURSIONS. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

CAPTAIN FORTUNE. _Third Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

TWISTED EGLANTINE. With 8 Illustrations by FRANK CRAIG. _Third
Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE HIGH TOBY. With a Frontispiece. _Third Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

See also Strand Novels.

=Wells (H. Q.).= THE SEA LADY. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Weyman (Stanley)=, Author of ‘A Gentleman of France.’ UNDER THE RED
ROBE. With Illustrations by R. C. WOODVILLE. _Twentieth Edition. Cr.
8vo. 6s._

=White (Stewart E.)=, Author of ‘The Blazed Trail.’ CONJUROR’S HOUSE.
A Romance of the Free Trail. _Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=White (Percy).= THE SYSTEM. _Third Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE PATIENT MAN. _Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Williamson (Mrs. C. N.)=, Author of ‘The Barnstormers.’ THE ADVENTURE
OF PRINCESS SYLVIA. _Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 3s. 6d._

THE WOMAN WHO DARED. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE SEA COULD TELL. _Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

THE CASTLE OF THE SHADOWS. _Third Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

PAPA. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Williamson (C. N. and A. M.).= THE LIGHTNING CONDUCTOR: Being the
Romance of a Motor Car. Illustrated. _Fifteenth Edition. Cr. 8vo.
6s._

THE PRINCESS PASSES. Illustrated. Seventh Edition. _Cr. 8vo. 6s._

MY FRIEND THE CHAUFFEUR. With 16 Illustrations. _Eighth Edition. Cr.
8vo. 6s._

LADY HETTY ACROSS THE WATER. _Sixth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

=Wyllarde (Dolf).= Author of ‘Uriah the Hittite.’ THE PATHWAY OF THE
PIONEER. _Fourth Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._

Methuen’s Shilling Novels

_Cr. 8vo. Cloth, 1s. net._

Encouraged by the great and steady sale of their Sixpenny Novels,
Messrs. Methuen have determined to issue a new series of fiction at a
low price under the title of ‘THE SHILLING NOVELS.’ These books are well
printed and well bound in _cloth_, and the excellence of their quality
may be gauged from the names of those authors who contribute the early
volumes of the series.

Messrs. Methuen would point out that the books are as good and as long
as a six shilling novel, that they are bound in cloth and not in paper,
and that their price is One Shilling _net_. They feel sure that the
public will appreciate such good and cheap literature, and the books can
be seen at all good booksellers.

The first volumes are—

=Balfour (Andrew).= VENGEANCE IS MINE.

TO ARMS.

=Baring-Gould (S.).= MRS. CURGENVEN OF CURGENVEN.

DOMITIA.

THE FROBISHERS.

=Barlow (Jane)=, Author of ‘Irish Idylls. FROM THE EAST UNTO THE WEST.

A CREEL OF IRISH STORIES.

THE FOUNDING OF FORTUNES.

=Barr (Robert).= THE VICTORS.

=Bartram (George).= THIRTEEN EVENINGS.

=Benson (E. F.)=, Author of ‘Dodo.’ THE CAPSINA.

=Bowles (G. Stewart).= A STRETCH OFF THE LAND.

=Brooke (Emma).= THE POET’S CHILD.

=Bullock (Shan F.).= THE BARRYS.

THE CHARMER.

THE SQUIREEN.

THE RED LEAGUERS.

=Burton (J. Bloundelle).= ACROSS THE SALT SEAS.

THE CLASH OF ARMS.

DENOUNCED.

FORTUNE’S MY FOE.

=Capes (Bernard).= AT A WINTER’S FIRE.

=Chesney (Weatherby).= THE BAPTIST RING.

THE BRANDED PRINCE.

THE FOUNDERED GALLEON.

JOHN TOPP.

=Clifford (Mrs. W. K.).= A FLASH OF SUMMER.

=Collingwood (Harry).= THE DOCTOR OF THE ‘JULIET.’

=Cornford (L. Cope).= SONS OF ADVERSITY.

=Crane (Stephen).= WOUNDS IN THE RAIN.

=Denny (C. E.).= THE ROMANCE OF UPFOLD MANOR.

=Dickson (Harris).= THE BLACK WOLF’S BREED.

=Dickinson (Evelyn).= THE SIN OF ANGELS.

=Duncan (Sara J.).= THE POOL IN THE DESERT.

A VOYAGE OF CONSOLATION.

=Embree (C. F.).= A HEART OF FLAME.

=Fenn (G. Manville).= AN ELECTRIC SPARK.

=Findlater (Jane H.).= A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE.

=Findlater (Mary).= OVER THE HILLS.

=Forrest (R. E.).= THE SWORD OF AZRAEL.

=Francis (M. E.).= MISS ERIN.

=Gallon (Tom).= RICKERBY’S FOLLY.

=Gerard (Dorothea).= THINGS THAT HAVE HAPPENED.

=Gilchrist (R. Murray).= WILLOWBRAKE.

=Glanville (Ernest).= THE DESPATCH RIDER.

THE LOST REGIMENT.

THE KLOOF BRIDE.

THE INCA’S TREASURE.

=Gordon (Julien).= MRS. CLYDE. WORLD’S PEOPLE.

=Goss (C. F.).= THE REDEMPTION OF DAVID CORSON.

=Gray (E. M‘Queen).= MY STEWARDSHIP

=Hales (A. G.).= JAIR THE APOSTATE.

=Hamilton (Lord Ernest).= MARY HAMILTON.

=Harrison (Mrs. Burton).= A PRINCESS OF THE HILLS. Illustrated.

=Hooper (I.).= THE SINGER OF MARLY.

=Hough (Emerson).= THE MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE.

=‘Iota’ (Mrs. Caffyn).= ANNE MAULEVERER.

=Jepson (Edgar).= KEEPERS OF THE PEOPLE.

=Kelly (Florence Finch).= WITH HOOPS OF STEEL.

=Lawless (Hon. Emily).= MAELCHO.

=Linden (Annie).= A WOMAN OF SENTIMENT.

=Lorimer (Norma).= JOSIAH’S WIFE.

=Lush (Charles K.).= THE AUTOCRATS.

=Macdonell (Anne).= THE STORY OF TERESA.

=Macgrath (Harold).= THE PUPPET CROWN.

=Mackle (Pauline Bradford).= THE VOICE IN THE DESERT.

=Marsh (Richard).= THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN.

GARNERED.

A METAMORPHOSIS.

MARVELS AND MYSTERIES.

BOTH SIDES OF THE VEIL.

=Mayall (J. W.).= THE CYNIC AND THE SYREN.

=Monkhouse (Allan).= LOVE IN A LIFE.

=Moore (Arthur).= THE KNIGHT PUNCTILIOUS.

=Nesbit (Mrs. Bland).= THE LITERARY SENSE.

=Norris (W. E.).= AN OCTAVE.

=Oliphant (Mrs.).= THE LADY’S WALK.

SIR ROBERT’S FORTUNE.

THE TWO MARY’S.

=Penny (Mrs. Frank).= A MIXED MARAGE.

=Phillpotts (Eden).= THE STRIKING HOURS.

FANCY FREE.

=Pryce (Richard).= TIME AND THE WOMAN.

=Randall (J.).= AUNT BETHIA’S BUTTON.

=Raymond (Walter).= FORTUNE’S DARLING.

=Rayner (Olive Pratt).= ROSALBA.

=Rhys (Grace).= THE DIVERTED VILLAGE

=Rickert (Edith).= OUT OF THE CYPRESS SWAMP.

=Roberton (M. H.).= A GALLANT QUAKER.

=Saunders (Marshall).= ROSE À CHARLITTE.

=Sergeant (Adeline).= ACCUSED AND ACCUSER.

BARBARA’S MONEY.

THE ENTHUSIAST.

A GREAT LADY.

THE LOVE THAT OVERCAME.

THE MASTER OF BEECHWOOD.

UNDER SUSPICION.

THE YELLOW DIAMOND.

=Shannon (W. F.).= JIM TWELVES.

=Strain (E. H.).= ELMSLIE’S DRAG NET.

=Stringer (Arthur).= THE SILVER POPPY.

=Stuart (Esmè).= CHRISTALLA.

=Sutherland (Duchess of).= ONE HOUR AND THE NEXT.

=Swan (Annie).= LOVE GROWN COLD.

=Swift (Benjamin).= SORDON.

=Tanqueray (Mrs. B. M.).= THE ROYAL QUAKER.

=Trafford-Taunton (Mrs. E. W.).= SILENT DOMINION.

=Upward (Allen).= ATHELSTANE FORD.

=Waineman (Paul).= A HEROINE FROM FINLAND.

=Watson (H. B. Marriott).= THE SKIRTS OF HAPPY CHANCE.

‘=Zack.=’ TALES OF DUNSTABLE WEIR.

Books for Boys and Girls

_Illustrated. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._

THE GETTING WELL OF DOROTHY. By Mrs. W. K. Clifford. _Second Edition._

THE ICELANDER’S SWORD. By S. Baring-Gould.

ONLY A GUARD-ROOM DOG. By Edith E. Cuthell.

THE DOCTOR OF THE JULIET. By Harry Collingwood.

LITTLE PETER. By Lucas Malet. _Second Edition._

MASTER ROCKAFELLAR’S VOYAGE. By W. Clark Russell. _Third Edition._

THE SECRET OF MADAME DE MONLUC. By the Author of “Mdlle. Mori.”

SYD BELTON: Or, the Boy who would not go to Sea. By G. Manville Fenn.

THE RED GRANGE. By Mrs. Molesworth.

A GIRL OF THE PEOPLE. By L. T. Meade. _Second Edition._

HEPSY GIPSY. By L. T. Meade. _2s. 6d._

THE HONOURABLE MISS. By L. T. Meade. _Second Edition._

THERE WAS ONCE A PRINCE. By Mrs. M. E. Mann.

WHEN ARNOLD COMES HOME. By Mrs. M. E. Mann.

The Novels of Alexandre Dumas

_Price 6d. Double Volumes, 1s._

THE THREE MUSKETEERS. With a long Introduction by Andrew Lang. Double
volume.

THE PRINCE OF THIEVES. _Second Edition._

ROBIN HOOD. A Sequel to the above.

THE CORSICAN BROTHERS.

GEORGES.

CROP-EARED JACQUOT; JANE; Etc.

TWENTY YEARS AFTER. Double volume.

AMAURY.

THE CASTLE OF EPPSTEIN.

THE SNOWBALL, and SULTANETTA.

CECILE; OR, THE WEDDING GOWN.

ACTÉ.

THE BLACK TULIP.

THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE.

Part I. Louise de la Vallière. Double Volume.

Part II. The Man in the Iron Mask. Double Volume.

THE CONVICT’S SON.

THE WOLF-LEADER.

NANON; OR, THE WOMEN’S WAR. Double volume.

PAULINE; MURAT; AND PASCAL BRUNO.

THE ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN PAMPHILE.

FERNANDE.

GABRIEL LAMBERT.

CATHERINE BLUM.

THE CHEVALIER D’HARMENTAL. Double volume.

SYLVANDIRE.

THE FENCING MASTER.

THE REMINISCENCES OF ANTONY.

CONSCIENCE.

PERE LA RUINE.

HENRI OF NAVARRE. The second part of Queen Margot.

THE GREAT MASSACRE. The first part of Queen Margot.

THE WILD DUCK SHOOTER.

Illustrated Edition.

_Demy 8vo. Cloth._

THE THREE MUSKETEERS. Illustrated in Colour by Frank Adams. _2s.
6d._

THE PRINCE OF THIEVES. Illustrated in Colour by Frank Adams. _2s._

ROBIN HOOD THE OUTLAW. Illustrated in Colour by Frank Adams. _2s._

THE CORSICAN BROTHERS. Illustrated in Colour by A. M. M’Lellan. _1s.
6d._

THE WOLF-LEADER. Illustrated in Colour by Frank Adams. _1s. 6d._

GEORGES. Illustrated in Colour by Munro Orr. _2s._

TWENTY YEARS AFTER. Illustrated in Colour by Frank Adams. _3s._

AMAURY. Illustrated in Colour by Gordon Browne. _2s._

THE SNOWBALL, and SULTANETTA. Illustrated in Colour by Frank Adams.
_2s._

THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. Illustrated in Colour by Frank Adams.

Part I. Louise de la Vallière. _3s._

Part II. The Man in the Iron Mask. _3s._

CROP-EARED JACQUOT; JANE; Etc. Illustrated in Colour by Gordon
Browne. _2s._

THE CASTLE OF EPPSTEIN. Illustrated in Colour by Stewart Orr. _1s.
6d._

ACTÉ. Illustrated in Colour by Gordon Browne. _1s. 6d._

CECILE; OR, THE WEDDING GOWN. Illustrated in Colour by D. Murray
Smith. _1s. 6d._

THE ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN PAMPHILE. Illustrated in Colour by Frank
Adams. _1s. 6d._

Methuen’s Sixpenny Books

=Austen (Jane).= PRIDE AND PREJUDICE.

=Bagot (Richard).= A ROMAN MYSTERY.

=Balfour (Andrew).= BY STROKE OF SWORD.

=Baring-Gould (S.).= FURZE BLOOM.

CHEAP JACK ZITA.

KITTY ALONE. URITH.

THE BROOM SQUIRE.

IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA.

NOÉMI.

A BOOK OF FAIRY TALES. Illustrated.

LITTLE TU’PENNY.

THE FROBISHERS.

=Barr (Robert).= JENNIE BAXTER, JOURNALIST.

IN THE MIDST OF ALARMS.

THE COUNTERS TEKLA.

THE MUTABLE MANY.

=Benson (E. P.).= DODO.

=Brontë (Charlotte).= SHIRLEY.

=Brownell (C. L.).= THE HEART OF JAPAN.

=Burton (J. Bloundelle).= ACROSS THE SALT SEAS.

=Caffyn (Mrs).=, (‘Iota’). ANNE MAULEVERER.

=*Capes (Bernard).= THE LAKE OF WINE.

=Clifford (Mrs. W. K.).= A FLASH OF SUMMER.

MRS. KEITH’S CRIME.

=Connell (F. Norreys).= THE NIGGER KNIGHTS.

=Corbett (Julian).= A BUSINESS IN GREAT WATERS.

=Croker (Mrs. B. M.).= PEGGY OF THE BARTONS.

A STATE SECRET.

ANGEL.

JOHANNA.

=Dante (Alighieri).= THE VISION OF DANTE (CARY).

=Doyle (A. Conan).= ROUND THE RED LAMP.

=Duncan (Sara Jeannette).= A VOYAGE OF CONSOLATION.

THOSE DELIGHTFUL AMERICANS.

=Eliot (George).= THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

=Findlater (Jane H.).= THE GREEN GRAVES OF BALGOWRIE.

=Gallon (Tom).= RICKERBY’S FOLLY.

=Gaskell (Mrs.).= CRANFORD.

MARY BARTON.

NORTH AND SOUTH.

=Gerard (Dorothea).= HOLY MATRIMONY.

THE CONQUEST OF LONDON.

MADE OF MONEY.

=Gissing (George).= THE TOWN TRAVELLER.

THE CROWN OF LIFE.

=Glanville (Ernest).= THE INCA’S TREASURE.

THE KLOOF BRIDE.

=Gleig (Charles).= HUNTER’S CRUISE.

=Grimm (The Brothers).= GRIMM’S FAIRY TALES. Illustrated.

=Hope (Anthony).= A MAN OF MARK.

A CHANGE OF AIR.

THE CHRONICLES OF COUNT ANTONIO.

PHROSO.

THE DOLLY DIALOGUES.

=Hornung (E. W.).= DEAD MEN TELL NO TALES.

=Ingraham (J. H.).= THE THRONE OF DAVID.

=Le Queux (W.).= THE HUNCHBACK OF WESTMINSTER.

=Levett-Yeats (S. K.).= THE TRAITOR’S WAY.

=Linton (E. Lynn).= THE TRUE HISTORY OF JOSHUA DAVIDSON.

=Lyall (Edna).= DERRICK VAUGHAN.

=Malet (Lucas).= THE CARISSIMA.

A COUNSEL OF PERFECTION.

=Mann (Mrs. M. E.).= MRS. PETER HOWARD.

A LOST ESTATE.

THE CEDAR STAR.

=Marchmont (A. W.).= MISER HOADLEY’S SECRET.

A MOMENT’S ERROR.

=Marryat (Captain).= PETER SIMPLE.

JACOB FAITHFUL.

=Marsh (Richard).= THE TWICKENHAM PEERAGE.

THE GODDESS.

THE JOSS.

=Mason (A. E. W.).= CLEMENTINA.

=Mathers (Helen).= HONEY.

GRIFF OF GRIFFITHSCOURT.

SAM’S SWEETHEART.

=Meade (Mrs. L. T.).= DRIFT.

=Mitford (Bertram).= THE SIGN OF THE SPIDER.

=Montresor (F. F.).= THE ALIEN.

=Moore (Arthur).= THE GAY DECEIVERS.

=Morrison (Arthur).= THE HOLE IN THE WALL.

=Nesbit (E.).= THE RED HOUSE.

=Norris (W. E.).= HIS GRACE.

GILES INGILBY.

THE CREDIT OF THE COUNTY.

LORD LEONARD.

MATTHEW AUSTIN.

CLARISSA FURIOSA.

=Oliphant (Mrs.).= THE LADY’S WALK.

SIR ROBERTS FORTUNE.

THE PRODIGALS.

=Oppenheim (E. Phillips).= MASTER OF MEN.

=Parker (Gilbert).= THE POMP OF THE LAVILETTES.

WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC.

THE TRAIL OF THE SWORD.

=Pemberton (Max).= THE FOOTSTEPS OF A THRONE.

I CROWN THEE KING.

=Phillpotts (Eden).= THE HUMAN BOY.

CHILDREN OF THE MIST.

=Ridge (W. Pett).= A SON OF THE STATE.

LOST PROPERTY.

GEORGE AND THE GENERAL.

=Russell (W. Clark).= A MARRIAGE AT SEA.

ABANDONED.

MY DANISH SWEETHEART.

=Sergeant (Adeline).= THE MASTER OF BEECHWOOD.

BARBARA’S MONEY.

THE YELLOW DIAMOND.

=Surtees (R. S.).= HANDLEY CROSS. Illustrated.

MR. SPONGE’S SPORTING TOUR. Illustrated.

ASK MAMMA. Illustrated.

=Valentine (Major E. S.).= VELDT AND LAAGER.

=Walford (Mrs. L. B.).= MR. SMITH.

THE BABY’S GRANDMOTHER.

=Wallace (General Lew).= BEN-HUR.

THE FAIR GOD.

=Watson (H. B. Marriot).= THE ADVENTURERS.

=Weekes (A. B.).= PRISONERS OF WAR.

=Wells (H. G.).= THE STOLEN BACILLUS.

=White (Percy).= A PASSIONATE PILGRIM.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

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